A Warrior of the Wind
by Sifter401
Summary: A horrified Riven deserts the Noxus she doesn't know anymore after a battle gone horribly wrong. As she tries to leave her past behind, she attempts to seek redemption in any way she can. Along the way, she makes new friends that force her to realize that helping those in need isn't a weakness: it's the greatest strength anyone can ever have. ***Under Reconstruction***
1. Chapter 1- Lonely Pillars

**Hey guys! This is my first ever fanfic, so it might be a bit bumpy as I'm still trying to figure out how to use this site. Please leave a review, and don't hold back! I need to know what I'm doing right and what I'm doing wrong for future chapters and stories. I do not own any of these characters (though sometimes I wish I did); they are property of Riot and I respect that. As you were, soldier. Edit: Just some grammar and stuff.**

 **Edit 2: As of March 3, 2017, I'm currently heavily editing this. In other words, you're going to see a huge dip in quality after this chapter. By all means, keep reading, but I warn you that it's pretty bad. I'm updating weekly.**

Sand twirled and whirled through a sky so blue and crisp, the ocean seemed to have taken flight and claimed the space beyond for its own. A sky marred by no clouds, but a blistering sun so hot, it seemed to singe the very air, singe the souls of the few soulless that lived in this desert.

The earth spiraled in delicate cones over plains of beige grit and flawless waves, expanding as far as the eye could see, hopelessly, desperately infinite in all directions. The sandy slopes that billowed like blankets in the dry, yet gentle breeze looked like any old desert.

Save for colossal rectangular pillars of black stone worn smooth to the touch by eons of wind and ballistic dirt, the massive beings that erupted from the sand some time ago but now loomed dead. The odd, unexplainable formations scattered across the wasteland in intervals of tens of miles consistently, though a birds-eye view could conceive no discernible pattern from their haphazard placements.

But their presence was not one of silent, sentient guardians of the yellow sands, no. They may have died ages ago, but they were not content in their prison that was death.

They were ominous, malicious beings, radiating malevolence, seething a foreboding enmity that was almost palpable, that contributed to the added to indifferent emotionless Hellscape that was the Shurima Desert. The giant, obsidian titans jabbed at the sky, ruining a flat horizon with their mere presence, as if they were purposely set there by some greater being to intrude upon the clear expanse of beautiful azure above.

And maybe they were.

And maybe whatever dwelled above, perhaps the Gods and the Goddesses whose shrines pocked Runeterra; maybe they had smote them down in rage, for their jagged tops which served as the nesting sites for avian monsters appeared to have been the result of some great fracture, like they used to be taller, much taller, but were violently separated from their missing upper halves.

No one knows of their origin; they were too large for the hands- assisted by magic, advanced technology, or simply a sheer multitude of helpful hands- of any race that still survived or thrived on the great Continent that sits between the forever raging Conqueror's Sea to the West and the comparably tranquil waters of the Guardian's Sea to the East.

As a result, the locals- though why anyone would ever consider this particular barren hunk of rock their home is anyone's guess- believed that they were the product of the inhabitants of the Heavens above, weaving a dense cultural web consisting of traditions known only to the sacred few that wandered in nomadic tribes.

The rugged tribesmen and women were strung with vines of dyed clay pendants and woven dreamcatchers that whispered as the nightmares and the mirages withered and perished in the enchanted netting, were buried beneath layers of leather and decorative ponchos to protect from the sun's rays, were accompanied by their tri-horned oxen wrapped in stone tools, collapsible yerts, salted foods, canteens, and anything else they could carry.

They worshipped the strange monuments in the belief that the act would appease their powerful Gods that watched, unseen and mysterious, proving their existence in miracles. Sometimes it was the amazing recovery of a small child fallen deathly ill to an unknown plague. Sometimes it was in the fortunate discovery of an oasis, startling green interrupting the golden waves of sand with its uncommon hues of lively chartreuse palm trees and deep, deep blues of a pool of water, sweet water. Whatever the case, the groups believed the Gods would guide and protect them from harm, and that anyone who tried to 'go it alone' always met with a horrible fate.

The person seeking shelter behind the gargantuan towers of black obviously did not heed their warnings. For amidst the silky sands of the infamously dangerous Shurima Desert, a lone figure lay prone, a tattered brown cloak shielding them from the burning Earth beneath them. They'd paused their trek across the desolate plains to rest and recover from the merciless heat of the blinding sun, vainly attempting to cool themselves off, to recover for the remainder of their journey.

The figure- human, with ears rounded and smoothed unlike the Elves, with a posture tall and impressive unlike the Yordles- was trying to fan themselves with a faintly feminine hand in a futile attempt to stave off heat stroke. The rest of the body belonging to the lone wanderer was comprised of long, muscular limbs, scars from battles long ago and recent blighting a darker skin tone. Although the limbs and the broad shoulders were rippling with strength, the narrower waist that hovered above wider hips and the larger chest revealed the person to be a woman; a woman with intricate facial features culminating to create a fit, yet very attractive lady of around 30-ish. Her short, platinum hair contrasted her crimson irises in such a way as to make the woman unforgettable, if her toned form hadn't already been ingrained into the mind of the viewer.

Her outfit was most peculiar, as if the woman hadn't the faintest clue of the dangers of the unforgiving sun. But the case was that she had, many times, in fact- waded through the Shurima, that is; she simply didn't care about sunburns, not when more pressing issues weighed down on her,

A robe cradled her breasts, a violet corset around a lean torso, and a white skirt faded by years and dirtied by countless bloodbaths and tromps through dusty deserts halted halfway down her thighs.

Any longer and it would impede her masterful wielding of a shattered blade with a single rune etched just above the hilt, pulsing a tranquil emerald in tune with the woman's heartbeat. The shard's width and thickness suggested that the sword was once humongous, a magnificent feat in masterful craftsmanship.

The only armor she wore was a spiked pauldorn poised on her left shoulder, a similar shin guard on the opposite leg, and a gauntlet with another rune on the back of the right hand, this one differing in size and complexity from the green, luminous etching on her oversized longsword.

Closer examination and superficial knowledge of the many factions of the world would identify the scraps of protective steel as those that belonged to a Commander of the Noxian Military, though the armor was worn to a polished dullness, creased with scars from a great many battles and tussles, and outdated by at least 10 years or more.

Overall, she appeared very ragtag, solemn, and rough around the edges, and for once appearance matched personality.

It was midday, and though the woman showed a lot of skin, it wasn't enough to grant her any sort of immunity from the scorching heat of the white hot star. Perhaps it was because the woman wisely decided on donning a dark, leather cloak to shield her smooth skin. Whatever the case, it didn't change the fact that she was roasting, and in dire need of water.

Thankfully, this was not her first hike across the scathing sands of the Shurima Desert- far from it. Dangling from her powerful, exposed thigh was a canteen filled three-quarters full of water, and from her other hip rested a satchel containing, among other things, many strips of dried Griffin meat.

The woman eventually gave up on fanning herself, ceding to the desert winds, shifting her position so that her back lay against the cool stone of the sinister sentinel behind her. She sighed, mildly content with the welcome change, and wiped hot, sticky sweat from her brow, accidentally smudging the remnants of the war paint caked onto her face.

After she drew a long swig from the canteen with cracked lips, she voiced her thoughts to no one in particular.

"Damn this heat. This desert can go fuck itself."

Her voice was wise and feminine. It spoke of vast experience of the intricacies of both life and death, especially a startling amount of the latter, even though she only had 30 years under her belt.

Her thoughts were peaceful, calm, and collected, a far cry from where she stood over a decade ago. The ashen-haired woman let her head fall backwards, propping on the uncomfortably flat expanse of pitch blackness, beautifully tragic eyes hiding behind soft skin, as Riven recounted bloody war, placid dojos, and finally upon velvety raven locks and icy blue eyes that only thawed for her.


	2. Chapter 2- A Promotion

**Forgot to explain in the last chapter that in this little world of mine, the Institute of War and the League of Legends doesn't exist. A lack of a peacemaker and permanent deaths of characters is more interesting to me, and allows me to weave a more impactful story (or so I think). Other than that, it's mostly lore-friendly with a few exceptions. Shout out to IKoatlI, RavenOfTheWinds, and destinysilence for being the first people to ever favorite any of my work! This chapter is a bit longer than the last one and very exposition-y, but I promise it'll kick up in the next few chapters (probably)! Edit: Just some grammar and stuff.**

 **12 Years Ago**

The Eastern Coast of The Continent is not extraordinary, save for one particular city. Along the Eastern beaches of Valoran, one can see anything else one might gaze upon almost anywhere else in the world.

On the southernmost tip of the stretch of land, comfortably nestled in the luscious, green meadows of Ruddynip Valley lies Yordle Land, the birthplace and home of the majority of the population of the cute, fuzzy creatures known as Yordles. Bandle City, the Democratic capital of the fur balls of Valoran, sits right on the edge of the sea. With splendid views of the flawless, foaming, blue waters and pristine beaches, the city (read: large town) offers unique, exquisite delicacies not obtainable anywhere else in the wide world of Runeterra, as well as a community that is perpetually, annoyingly, always happy and optimistic. The gorgeous sights, delicious eats, and the society that never stops smiling appeals to many and it shows; The Bandle City harbor is chalked full of merchant vessels and tourist cruise liners bursting with wealthy noblemen and women of varied nationality who "just can't wait to see the purple, 3-foot teddy bears!"

Just above the valley lies the Northeastern edge of the Sablestone Mountains, a series of naturally beautiful plateaus and mesas that shield the short fuzzy race of beings from the mysterious Voodoo Lands, an area where few ever return from.

Traveling further up the coast eventually yields the Great Barrier, a mountain range that divides The Continent in two, and is very unlike the Sablestones. Where the Sablestones are a series of gentle slopes and rises, the Great Barrier is sudden, steep, and overwhelming. Craggy edges with unforgiving plummets into a seemingly endless, dark abyss where demon spawns from Hell surely creeped, the towers of stone can only be surpassed through a worn crumbling set of stairs, dubbed Mogron Pass. One misstep, and the unlucky soul would plunge head first into a pitch black chasm where death itself awaits with his cloak of the night draped over his skeletal frame.

The Northeastern beaches of Valoran are just that- beaches of no claim to fame, though they aren't necessarily unsightly either.

Then, there is Noxus.

Where the North meets the South, just above the Great barrier, lies the city-state where brutality and strength are rewarded with fame, glory, and a higher rank in the militaristic hierarchy that rules with an iron fist over its population. The City itself is a dark, imposing spread of land visible from miles away at sea. The slums, consisting of poorhouses where "disposable" families live and fight to survive that protect the inner, wealthier inhabitants, sit- no, lay- in terrified obedience of its master, as if it were an abused animal, desperately trying to "follow the rules" lest they be beaten unconscious with a leather belt. The meadows surrounding the pitiful huts of Noxus are a wasteland, not entirely unlike the Shurima, except this ground is black, not a beautiful, glistening sheet of yellows and golds, instead burned by noxious chemical formulas concocted by sick, sick minds that reside in the arguably equally as brutal city of Zaun. The beaches upon where great, ominous flagships of war cease their tireless patrols are charred and glassed over in a shiny, horrifically beautiful kind of way.

As paths leading into the city close in on the center, the rickety, old huts that insult the very meaning of the word "house" slowly transform, adopting pitch black tiling, braziers where hot, burning flames sizzle on forever, large, red stained glass windows that throw light the exact color of blood onto the streets lined with ornate lampposts that cast shadows that move closer when you blink. The structures grew in size and intensity, as did the barbaric families housed inside, until the paths eventually reach the drawbridges surrounding the main fortress where all the big boys hung their weapons. The opposing walls, because that's what they were now, forming thick, gargantuan bulwarks that reached 100 feet high easy seemed to lean out over the moat where terrible things made their nest, egging the other embankment on in true, Noxian fashion. In the end, though, the mammoth barricade of brutish, blocky soldiers guarding the inner city's capital building stood taller than their brethren across dark waters, more confident, fierce, and most importantly _stronger_.

But for all the aggressive, bloody vibes the outer city emanated, the terrifying architecture of the central island where the capital stood completed the haunting atmosphere that hung over the area like a dense fog. For it was here that the ground suddenly and violently rose from the Earth hundreds of feet, creating a mesa that housed the most savage Noxians that lead their mighty armies into bloody conflicts with blood-curdling battle cries. Glaring down at its disciples, a giant skeletal face made of rock and craggy stone had been carved into the cliff side. It was too perfect, too natural to possibly be natural. Its eyes, hollow caves in the mountainside so deep and dark, its depth seemed endless. Like staring into Hell itself, or rather, Hell itself was staring into you. On the angled, flat scalp of this mouthless skull sat a series of tall spires that scraped viciously at a permanently overcast sky. The castle almost appeared to have burst from the skull's cranium; perhaps it had been the cause of the skeleton's demise.

The citadel above was gloomy and ghastly, great arches of rough blocks of stone connecting towers and buildings that loomed over the rest of the city, almost daring it to make a move. Inside the fortress, the only form of light came in torches sparsely placed along long, sinister hallways that lead to rooms furnished with somber, ebony tables, chairs, and shelves upon which great tomes with diabolical names sat. Above each room, the ceiling seemed nonexistent, sable pools of darkness where a chandelier seemed to spawn, swaying menacingly in an absent breeze. The floors were garnished with large rugs, a deep lavish violet that seemed to cover every square inch of stone, almost trying to hide something from the few passersby that survived.

In this evil abode sat the emperor, the epitome of everything that plagued Noxus. It was here that the cruel, silver tonged tyrant, Jericho Swain made his lair. He had achieved his title the same way others in a position of great power had gained theirs; by mercilessly ripping the flesh of his predecessors one by one, climbing the ranks like a ladder, despite his crippled leg. Many had challenged him for his position on the throne, but once his remaining enemies gazed upon their carcasses, flesh torn and rotted by powerful necromancy, they had wisely opted to stay in the shadows that were so prevalent in Noxus, biding their time before someone else would surely come to topple The Master Tactician. Yes, Swain was very powerful, but ultimately his startling brilliance and tact were what got him to where he stood today, for it surely wasn't his appearance that wooed the stone hearts of his comrades. Skin so pale you'd swear he was corpse if you spied him snoring in his bedchamber peeked out from a long robe, a turtleneck covering his mouth but not his large, brutish nose. He wasn't tall, but he wasn't short, and he was always, ALWAYS accompanied by his only true friend: a giant, purple raven with six eyes, three on each side of its eternally grinning beak, perched upon his shoulder. Beatrice was her name, though only Swain knew that, just as only Swain knew of his origins, which was a frequent topic of discussion amongst the richer inhabitants of the city.

Swain was mostly to blame for the regression of the Noxian society, although he did find allies in Generals and Commanders that believed in his cause. Swain's many famous speeches had managed to convince the Noxian people to abandon those in need, that anyone who required a shoulder to lean on to stand upright was weak, and was better left lying in the filth and grime of the gutters where blood and water ran in equal measures. Strength was praised and worshipped, almost as if the virtue itself was a powerful, angry God, whereas weakness was pitiful and shameful, and occasionally an arrestable offense.

Riven had never noticed the poor mental state of the country she loved; it was her home, where she grew up, where she trained from an early age in the ways of the sword. It was normal for the young lass to have never heard the words, "I love you" from her parents. It was normal for Riven to show up to combat practice with ugly bruises on her face and developing body because she "poured the milk wrong," or "lent a hand to the weak and feeble." She had never objected to the tyrannical insanity of her leader as she was just a simple soldier, unable to think on her own, or so she told herself.

Riven's skill and resolve eventually attracted the attention of the High Command at an early age, 14-years-old, specifically. The young, yet highly skilled warrior was the perfect poster child: she was strong, emotionless, and followed orders with ruthless efficiency. For her adept combat ability and rising fame, she was granted her iconic weapon, a buster sword as tall (and almost as heavy) as herself and inscribed with powerful runes that allowed her to unleash her inner Ki in the heat of battle. It was then, training with her new sword, where she gained incredible physique and power, for she needed near-superhuman strength to effectively wield her enchanted blade. But for all her effort, the finely crafted weapon was still too bulky and odd for Riven to be comfortable with.

Luckily for the young heroine, she had unrequited access to the military's facilities in what little free time she possessed. This included one of the largest, most extensive libraries on The Continent, boasting a collection of over 1 million texts and scriptures comprised of hundreds of thousands of subjects ranging from ancient mythology to the long-term effects of extended torture to compendiums of spell books, pages worn and ripped from constant fingering. Hell, even cookbooks sat on dusty shelves, outlining the proper way to season roasted chicken thighs and the difference between a pinch and a smidgeon (believe it or not, there is a very well-defined difference). Located inside the massive mountain supporting the home of their great, wonderful leader, the impressive bibliotheca was where Riven had unearthed a tome that would forever change her way of fighting.

From The Way of the Wind, possibly one of the last editions that existed on Runeterra, Riven studied the legendary _Wind Technique_ , a long-forgotten martial art that used the very air that whipped across plains and carved mountains out of blocks of the Earth like invisible sculptors chiseling away at their magnum opus to aid the swordswoman in battle. The secret, she learned, was not to command the wind, for nothing could hold down the free spirit that enshrouded everything, living or inanimate. Instead, she found she must ask it for help (something that would undoubtedly piss off her superiors), to guide her blade and herself with gusts of air that granted unparalleled speed and power for a weapon proportionate to her size. Not long after studying the dusty album, Riven's combat prowess improved markedly; she could now easily best anyone in her squad, though that wasn't necessarily an awe-inspiring feat. A half-competent dunce with a rusty kitchen knife could probably discern that randomly charging at full speed with no regards to their own safety while wailing like a lion with a broken leg is not a sound battle tactic, but the men and women under her command couldn't seem to figure this out.

The higher-ups noticed once again, and the platinum-haired woman found herself as the first ever to obtain the title of Noxian Military Commander during peacetime at the age of 17, an accomplishment she proudly boasted.

Then came the war that changed it all.

War was nothing new to Noxus; the bloodthirsty nation was almost always clashing swords with their neighbors and rivals, the Demacians, in the greedy hopes that they could conquer their cultural opposite and build a new empire in their smoldering remains. Unfortunately for the aggressive expansionists, the Demacians held firm in their resolve, and fought back with equal valor forcing the opposing side into a bloody stalemate. But Noxus wasn't satisfied with what they viewed as a loss, and so the nation turned its bloody maw to the island country of Ionia.

Spies acting as merchants and war refugees sailed across the Guardian Sea, reporting to Noxus the intricacies and weaknesses of the peaceful people. In order to raise morale and discredit the voices of the concerned citizens who realized that Ionia had never instigated any form of conflict with the relentless state, Swain regularly bellowed carefully crafted speeches from his perch in a tower, using magic to amplify his voice so the simple peasants could get in on the action. Aimed at uniting all of Noxus beneath his terrible influence, he convinced his crowd that their neighbors across the way were weak in their fruitless, futile search for enlightenment.

"Their disgusting culture fools them into the ludicrous notion that enlightenment is the true path to greatness." Swain's voice boomed. "They are weak, and stupid creatures, not fit to rule themselves. We shall march across their lands, freeing the simpletons of these irrational concepts, and forge another great city for which the banner of Noxus will stand defiant. They want enlightenment? Then we shall give them their enlightenment! _BLOOD FOR NOXUS!_ "

His mass of loyal followers cheered enthusiastically, euphoric battle cries filling the air, resounding off of the walls of the giant skull whose emotionless expression hadn't changed.

Riven found herself among the smelly, sweaty mosh pit that was screaming obscenities and death threats. All in all, she was excited- she would finally engage in the ultimate test of skill: real combat, not just chopping endlessly at wooden dummies. She was still on edge, though. Riven was not particularly keen on the idea of spilling the blood of a race that seemed so harmless, but she would carry out her orders as instructed, just like any good soldier would.

ooooo

 _Thwack, thwack, THWACK!_

The sound of steel hacking at solid oak reverberated off of the 10-foot metal fence that surrounded the training grounds connected to the barracks. The lone, platinum-blonde swiped at her imaginary foe in 3 successive blows, just as The Way of the Wind had instructed her. " _Attack in bursts, then retreat from your enemy and assess the damage. If the assault was ineffective, call upon the wind once more and listen to its infinite wisdom as it reveals your enemy's true weakness, for the wind flies far and wide, witnessing many battles and clashes of steel and flesh. With this knowledge, strike again with renewed vigor_ ," Riven could practically see the smudged text set upon withered, yellow pages in her mind's eye as she practiced the technique over and over.

She suddenly became aware of footsteps, their light and quiet nature suggesting a woman's. Riven halted her movements and spun on her heels, sword hand hanging limp at her side.

A beyond gorgeous redhead was strutting toward Riven, an old scar running down her face intersecting sickly green irises. The ends of blood red lips were pulled upward in a confident sneer, long burgundy locks that reached her lower back partially obscuring her right eye and flowing gently in the wind. She wore black leather heels ending just below the knees that overlapped combat trousers the color of the night that hugged her long, powerful legs like a second skin. Wrapped around her thighs and waist, she wore several belts sporting kunai, razor-sharp and glinting from the flames of a nearby brazier. Her midriff was completely bare, silky pale skin decorated with faint traces of tattoos rippling over toned abs. Her considerable bust was concealed by a corset, a very short, tight corset that left the tops of her breasts exposed. A jacket that cut off at her mid back covered her sleek arms. Thin wrist guards protected her forearms, while fingerless gloves covered petite, deceptively agile fingers. Two elongated, oversized knives intended for inflicting deep, severe wounds were crossed in an X, suspended between her shoulder blades by dual scabbards. Overall, the woman's outfit left very little to the imagination, shamelessly flaunting a curvy, hourglass figure. Riven briefly wondered if her rather slutty getup was to distract the enemy or "distract the enemy."

' _Probably both_ ,' she concluded.

"You're sharp. Most people can't hear me 2 steps away, let alone 20 feet," the voice was deep, yet smooth and very suggestive.

"I'm not most people," Riven's tone was factual and cautious; there had been many in her company who'd attempted to knock her off in an effort to enjoy the luxuries of her position as captain (hint: there were none), and although she didn't recognize the woman closing the distance, she couldn't be sure she hadn't been paid off. Her crew was definitely dastardly enough to employ such an underhanded, cowardly tactic, and so she stood taller, a fierce gleam highlighting crimson irises.

The woman's gaze bathed over the Commander, taking everything in with hungry eyes. She licked her lips, "I can see that."

She winked.

Riven shivered, and not in a good way. "You've been watching me. Why?" It was true; for the last few years a slim figure had silently spectated her training bouts from one of the many shadows of Noxus

An impressed, "Hm." Then, "You really aren't like most people." She rested a hand on her side, hips cocked off-center in a decidedly sultry pose.

"You already said that."

"I know," she snapped, a snarl passing over her handsome face before she could regain her composure.

' _Impatient_ ,' Riven thought. She decided to press her advantage, exploiting the stranger's weakness. "You haven't answered my question."

"Listen here, you little shit, I'm trying to help you. Besides, _I'm_ the one that asks the questions, not you. Got it?" She sounded exasperated, as if this hadn't followed some perfect plan in that pretty little head of hers.

Riven didn't respond.

An irked sigh escaped the woman's glistening lips as she gave up all attempts to appear seductive. Riven inwardly sighed with relief. It wasn't that she didn't swing that way- she did-; the woman in front of her putting on a show was simply not her type. Then again, was crazy anyone's type? She couldn't say.

Riven broke the silence, "…What kind of questions would you have?"

The stranger lifted her head, near flawless face twisted into a sinister grin. She slowly crossed the distance between them and stopped when their noses were less than a foot apart. The redhead was slightly shorter than Riven, but the woman's presence invading her personal space was still plenty intimidating. Riven stood her ground, a grimace taking hold of her darker complexion. When the woman spoke, Riven felt hot breath that smelled of… lotus flowers? That couldn't be right.

"Tell me something, Riven," the sensual accent was completely absent, giving rise to a very off-putting smirk. There was a long, dramatic pause before the redhead finally spoke. Her locution was drawling and goading, and there was a distinct lull between each word.

"Do you fear death?" she accentuated every syllable, drawing out the "th" in the final word. Her cold, calculating eyes extensively examined Riven's, finally concluding in satisfaction, "You don't. Good." Her hard gaze didn't let up. She continued, "There is no room for cowards in the Crimson Elite."

Riven couldn't keep shocked excitement from framing her face. ' _Did she just-?_ '

The woman threw back her head, letting loose a high pitched cackle. To Riven's discomfort, the erotic look returned to the woman's face as she spoke, "Perform your duties well in the upcoming purge of those fools overseas and you will earn your rightful position among Noxus' most feared."

Then the woman kissed Riven, bringing her slender hands around her neck to pull her in close. It was not loving or passionate; it felt cruel, vile, and extremely rapey, and was completely unwanted. Riven noticed with no small amount of alarm that the woman's tongue prodded at her mouth, attempting to gain entry into Riven's oral cavern. This was not okay, and Riven would've removed the woman by force if she hadn't released herself on her own accord, licking her lips and breaking the trail of saliva that bridged the gap. She winked before rounding herself to face the direction she entered from and sauntered away, hips swaying dramatically, daring the shocked woman to stare at her ass.

When Riven finally recovered from her surprised stupor, she indignantly spat, "Do you suck face with every new recruit?!"

The woman laughed her piercing laugh, then addressed the instigative comment without pausing her departure from the arena, "Only the attractive ones." Then, she added, "The name is Katarina, if you were looking for more of _that_ ~."

"I wasn't," Riven replied, appalled at the suggestion. ' _How easy does she think I am?_ '

There was no reply, but Riven couldn't care less. Her mind was on other subjects, namely the offer to ascend to the ranks of the Crimson Elite. The squad of men and women alike was comprised of only the most skilled fighters in the Noxus Military, each able to hold their own against countless enemy combatants. Securing a place among the legendary battalion feared by every nation in Valoran had been Riven's dream, and the fact that she apparently possessed the talent to stand proudly among the ruthless division at only 18 years of age sent her heart soaring into the Heavens.

But something Katarina had let slip during their disturbingly intimate moment plagued Riven's mind with unrest. The testy redhead had stated that they would purge the Ionian race, but as far as Riven knew from Swain's electrifying addresses, their ultimate goal was to set up shop somewhere new, not exterminate the masses.

With that, Riven waltzed back to the barracks deep in thought- although the sun's outline was still visible through the thick layer of fibrous clouds looming ominously above, the ashen-haired woman would need all of the strength and energy she could muster for the coming days. As she settled into her bed, a scratchy fleece mattress not fit for a common criminal filled with goose feather that leaked from an unknown source, her eyelids fluttered shut, grimly determined upon resting well for her travels across the vast Guardian Sea that was tomorrow.

Riven didn't sleep a wink.


	3. Chapter 3- Genocide

**Heads up to Thorcanum for writing the first review on my work! You have no idea how much it means to me! Edit: Oh my fucking god, for all this time I'd forgotten that I'd described an 8 year old girl as "nubile". I feel sick, guys. I'm not a pedophile, I swear; I was just misguided on what the definition meant. Jesus Christ….**

 **12 Years Ago**

Beneath a black swathe of sky dotted by brilliant glowing orbs, a small fishing village sat on the shoreline of Southern Ionia. Quiet and quaint, the community of fishermen dozed in huts constructed of bamboo and grass rooves. The people didn't have much- just their families consisting of little boys and girls, fathers and mothers, grandfathers and grandmothers, their little, makeshift homes, the beautiful moon whose white light washed over the cluster of wooden shacks, and the silent, silvery sea- but they were content.

An orchard grew in rows behind the clustered shanties, cherry trees yielding their beautiful blossoms to the night sky. The pink petals slowly descended from their perches, twirling and scattering in the warm breeze in a peaceful, whimsical fashion, eventually coming to rest lightly on the cold dirt and grass of the earthen floor. The ground was almost invisible, obscured by a thick rug of fuchsia leaves that was steadily growing taller. The cherry blossoms surrendering their limbs to greedy Terra stood stalk still, resembling noble guardians standing at attention, protecting their keepers who now slept soundly in shelters made of their sturdier brethren. Though their efforts were honorable, nothing could save the villagers from their fate.

It started with the moon. A monstrous blob that extinguished the stars where it trailed slowly drifted toward the defenseless people that would serve as an example. But before it was to sink its venomous talons into the seashore shantytown, its greedy gaze caught sight of the pale discus floating in an ocean of obsidian. Its maw nibbled on the heavenly body before ripping off large chunks, gradually consuming the poor moon until there was nothing left. The land was cast into an impenetrable shadow, darkness enshrouding anything and everything. All sound was extinguished- crickets ceased their incessant chirping, the wind died, and the tar black sea halted all movements. An eerie calm took hold as the colorless mass in the sky turned its sights to the village, its ravenous appetite far from sated.

Then all of a sudden, the being pounced. The sky glowed with a new light as great, bright green blobs of death erupted from the underbelly of the beast. In the luminescence of the explosion, the creature showed its true face: a massive blimp of Zaunite design with cannons that slung hazardous chemicals attached to the cabin of the flying titan.

Toxic meteors rained upon the unsuspecting inhabitants below, bursting as they connected with the Earth. Florid sludge bathed the town in poisonous mucus, destroying everything it touched. Then, as sudden as the rain of green fire had started, the apocalyptic storm finished.

In the maelstrom's place, hundreds of black warships appeared on the horizon, a dozen or so breaking formation and gliding to the shoreline, running aground their hulking bodies to release the swarm of steel clad demons grasping weapons of all sizes and shapes.

Among the black flow of Noxian invaders, one warrior in particular stood out. The single ashen-haired soldier was walking, staring dumbly at the village under siege. She couldn't believe her eyes: she had been informed by High Command that this was an important military outpost, not a harmless fishing village. Yet, there they were, treating the citizens as if they were snarling cur, not fit to take another breath. The Zaunite chemical concoctions burned with a vile light, illuminating the massacre taking place around it as the macabre mix slowly disintegrated the structures that once sheltered fishermen. Riven stared in horror as whole families were ripped from their homes, dark bags under their eyes and terror gripping their faces. Her stomach lurched as she witnessed the same families forced to their knees, children included, shortly followed by a gruesomely efficient execution that sent heads rolling and blood flowing across the sacred ground.

And then there was the sound. Screams of terror and pain snaked like thorny tendrils around Riven's pounding heart, scratching at her very soul. Screams of fathers awaking to find their son's faces literally melted off by stinking green bile. Screams of mothers witnessing their daughters' innocence being violently torn from their grasps by the merciless invaders. Suddenly, Riven became conscious of the fact that the men and women committing unspeakable atrocities before her reported directly to _her_. Those were _her_ soldiers ransacking and looting the defenseless village. Those were _her_ officers slaughtering men, women, and children like cattle, their blood flowing across the surface in unrelenting waves.

' _This is war_ ,' Riven thought. ' _No,_ ' she corrected herself, her sudden enlightenment sending cold shivers down her spine, ' _this isn't war. This…This is an extermination, a holocaust of the Ionian people._ ' Then a blasphemous idea, ' _Swain lied._ '

"Riven, darling Riven," a smooth, feminine voice off to her right spoke to her, "why the hesitation? Do you not relish the suffering of these Ionian pigs?"

The shocked platinum-blonde angled her head to the owner of the voice. She glared at Katarina, a furious scowl seizing her face as she spat, "What the fuck is going on? Why are we killing these people? Why are we killing children?!"

A dreadful grin spawned on Katarina's face as a bloodthirsty twinkle decorated eyes the same color and toxicity of the Zaunite chemical weapons. There was something else there as well, something that shook Riven's mental state to its core; hidden deep in the redhead's irises resided _lust_ and murderous _longing_.

' _Oh my God,_ ' Riven realized, ' _the bloodshed gets her off. She's a fucking psycho._ ' And then, ' _They're all bat-shit insane. How have I not noticed before?!_ '

Katarina recognized the expression, and her demented, toothy smile only widened deeper into madness. She cackled. "You didn't _really_ think we were going to ' _free the simpletons from their irrational concepts,_ ' did you?" She studied Riven's face, then, "You did! Ha!" Katarina's tone was dismissive, "I misjudged you, Riven. An inability to realize what's best for Noxus? You obviously must not be Crimson Elite material."

The last comment stung, and Riven found herself spluttering and stumbling over her words before unintelligently spitting out, "Am too!" Riven's cheeks flushed at the pathetic attempt to defend her honor.

Katarina smirked, and haughtily commanded, "Prove it." She extended her right arm, index finger of her gloved hand pointing at something and then curling it in a _come here_ motion.

Riven looked to what the redhead was indicating. Her heart literally stopped.

Two Noxian brutes soaked with blood carried a young girl no older than 8 between them. She was light skinned, as all Ionians were, and she was bawling, legs swinging and kicking in a futile, desperate attempt to free herself from her captor's gorilla like hands. She wore a nightgown of animal skin sewn together with strips of bamboo bark. On her chest, a curious insignia carved into a wooden disc 3 inches in diameter was somehow suspended on her shirt. The symbol surely stood for something, though for what, Riven couldn't discern.

The soldiers, fed up with trying to restrain the young brat, unceremoniously tossed her into the blood-soaked mud in front Riven. As she scrambled to her feet, Riven's horrified gaze traveled up to meet Katarina's.

With a wicked smirk, Katarina stared into Riven's crimson eyes, silently conveying a bone-chilling message. Riven deciphered the savage gleam of brutal anticipation in the redhead's irises.

"No…," Riven whispered, eyes widening in unconcealed dismay. "No, no I won't-," Riven cut herself off, panic coursing through bulging veins.

"Are you sure about that, Riven?" the psychotic assassin questioned, obviously attempting to woo the ashen-haired warrior to the dark side. When Riven remained paralyzed by indecision, Katarina continued, "She is _Ionian_. She is nothing, a plague upon Runeterra, a weed that must be uprooted to ensure the rise of the strong. And the only true method of removing a weed..," a dramatic pause,"…is to sever the roots."

The young girl's eyes widened at the final phrase, finally understanding its meaning, and coming to terms with her intended fate.

Riven remained still, gaze locked on the child that stood before her. The young girl was so beautiful and frail. Her face, once smiling and eternally happy, was plastered with dirt and grime, trails of glistening, glass tears soaking up the mud and leaving a distinguishable path that revealed a streak of soft skin. Her pouty lips quivered in fear, snot running from her sniffling nose. Long, charcoal locks dangled in ornate braids decorated with twigs, sticks, and flowers of various size and hue. She'd stopped crying, but she was still afraid. Then Riven noticed those eyes, those big, gorgeous, cerulean eyes that drilled straight into Riven's soul. They conveyed shock, terror, grief, but the most noticeable emotion swimming in deep, blue depths was confusion.

Riven didn't know what to do. Refuse, and she would be branded weak, and surely killed on the spot, never mind promoted to the highest rank. Submit to the assassin egging her on, and she would murder someone that hadn't ever been given the chance to live their life.

Riven thought back to Noxus, to the imposing, black pyres of smoke, and to the deathly quiet that hung over the city. She imagined the families living in huts not unlike those razed by the Zaunite gunship still hovering over them. Noxus was facing an undeniable issue. Normally, with the city-state perpetually at war, the death count broke even with the number of births. However, with their bloody conflict with Demacia on hold, there was nothing to keep the population in check, and the slums bordering the metropolitan grew in size every day. Riven was not ignorant; she could deduce that the "liberation" of the Ionian Islands was not only for spreading their brutal ideals. Noxus needed land to survive, it was as simple as that. In a sick, revolting way, it made sense that Swain would order what amounts to an ethnic cleansing: there wasn't enough room for the two of them. Riven saw sound logic to the young girls demise, she reluctantly concluded.

But to commit such a foul, unforgivable deed, to end an innocent child's life, Riven was still unconvinced.

' _You are a soldier, Riven. You do not think, you act. Your survival is not important. Your superiors call the shots, you simply follow them. If they order an assault on the Devil himself, you are to kick down the gates of Hell and attack. If they order you to drop to your knees and give them pleasure, you drop to your knees and open wide. If they order the execution of a defenseless child…,_ " Riven finally, painfully conceded, _"…then you execute the child…_ "

With violently trembling arms, she raised her giant weapon behind her, now aware of how hilariously overkill it seemed right now. She coiled her arms, preparing to strike in a horizontal blow that would end her painlessly.

Then the young girl shattered her convictions, forcing Riven to pause mid swing.

"Why?" was all she said, blue globes perplexed and depressed. Her tone was small, feeble, and heartbreaking. Riven stared at her, absorbing the sensible question, trying and failing to come up with an answer. "Why?" she repeated when the woman didn't reply.

Katarina's voice tinged with annoyance intruded upon the moment, "Don't listen to the little brat. Do it."

Nothing.

"Do it," louder, and more commanding.

Still nothing.

"Do it!" she shouted.

Riven hesitated.

Then, with a screech at the top of her voice Katarina screamed in fury, "DO IIIIIIT!"

The pitch shook Riven out of her trance. She inhaled, slammed her eyelids shut as hard as she could, and swung. She sensed the vibration as the blade connected, but it felt off, like it hit more bone than there should have been in the average young girl's neck. When she opened her eyes, she discovered why.

Instead of intersecting at her throat, the massive blade had cut two inches higher than had been intended. The young girl's mandible was still attached to her body, tongue lying dormant in the crease between her immature teeth. Riven could see a faint circular outline in the meatier, rear cross-section of her head that must have been her spine. Tubes that used to be the young girl's esophagus enthusiastically pumped blood the color of Riven's eyes in a gruesome fountain. The platinum-blonde searched the ground, befuddled when she couldn't locate the missing piece. Then, she looked up.

Suspended in air, slowly twirling and leaving a thick, red ribbon that lazily fluttered alongside her braids was the chunk previously unaccounted for. All noise was absent, an eerie silence cocooning what was left of the duo. Consisting of the upper jaw and everything above, the head gradually descended like the cherry blossoms from the orchard that now lay in ruin. Riven's gaze was transfixed upon the spectacle as it bounced once, then rolled towards her feet, halting between her legs. It had landed face up, dead, milky eyes staring up at Riven, as if to say, ' _You did this to me._ '

The weight of her actions forced Riven to her knees. Her weapon slipped through her fingers and landed with a dull _thud_. She became vaguely aware of high-pitched cackling, but her attention was all on the juvenile form in front of her. The body finally collapsed backwards, blood mixing with the wet sand beneath it. Riven gently lifted the head, staring at the shocked face of her victim. Piercing, blue eyes once more penetrated through Riven's very being, judging the ashen-haired woman as she stared glumly back.

Riven brought the head to her chest, hugging it tightly as a warm wetness soaked her cloth breastplate, and bowed her own to stare at the sand. Salty, hot tears cascaded down her cheeks and mixed with the red dirt she sat on as her face contorted into one of grief. She found her eyes shut once more, and she choked back a sob as she contemplated, ' _What have I done?_ '

The girl's question repeated over and over in her head until the words spilled out of her subconscious and into the waking world. "Why?" she asked. No one heard her, thankfully. In fact, no one had witnessed her breakdown because they were already 50 feet away, waltzing victoriously towards their next target.

Riven sniffled, then stood, still clutching the decapitated appendage in her bloody hands. She decided she would bury the body; it was the least she could do for the poor girl. While Riven was technically the Commander of the squad of roughnecks hooting and hollering, the adrenaline high from the slaughter that probably felt very similar to the pleasure a sociopath basked in when they stomped on defenseless kittens would make them delirious and ignorant to their leader's absence. Besides, the murderous redhead likely enjoyed dominance in all aspects of life, so Riven wasn't worried.

Using her slippery sword as a makeshift shovel, she quickly and efficiently carved a grave in the sand. Riven chose a different spot to lay the girl to rest; it was 20 feet away, behind a dune that hid from view of the destroyed village and the raider's floating fortresses that spread themselves upon the shoreline like giant, beached whales. When that was done, she hurried to mingle with her armored "companions," a relieved sigh escaping her lips when no one called her out for deserting.

At the child-sized mound of earth, a wooden cross inscribed with lettering made of scraps of bamboo guarded over the deceased, sullenly protecting the spirit of the young girl who would never see another sunrise. She would never see the city that she used to babble constantly about to her mom and pop that rotted in the smoldering remains of her home. She would never fall in love. Etched into the grave marker that faced the peaceful sea were three words:

" _I don't know._ "


	4. Chapter 4- Riven the Exile

**Chapter updates will become less regular as the year stretches on, so just a little heads up for all of you getting used to my nightly updates. It's also because I've already exhausted most of my spicier adjectives, but a thesaurus helps a ton. Also, Ionia seems to be described as a more peaceful feudal Japan, so the Ionian guards are all badass Samurai. Reviews would be greatly appreciated! Edit: Just some grammar and word choices.**

 **12 Years Ago**

Steel clashed with steel beneath the pale, white moon that watched over the bloody melee. The temple where the battle transpired was mostly whole, though that surely wouldn't last long. Black shingles that traveled downwards at a shallow slope with their ends curled slightly upward adorned the roof of the dojo, and the pasty, rigid, cloth walls allowed outsiders to view shadows of passing temple-goers. Banners with Ionian insignias hung from the rafters, and fibrous, paper lanterns cast faint light onto the sandy, rock floor of the training grounds filled with practice dummies and a padded, circular arena. Red, wooden pillars framed the elegant structure and stood out amongst the otherwise drab color scheme.

The interior of the temple was separated with papyrus dividers and sliding door frames. Candles softly flickered, flames dancing erratically on shrines decorated with sweet-smelling incense and figurines resembling gods and icons of the temple's inhabitants. Kimonos dangled in open closets, their many, bright colors adding vitality to the solemn space. Stands flaunted ornate sets of armor consisting of carefully woven plates of parchment supporting iron scales gridlocked by chainmail. The plates appeared to hang loosely from the wearer, but a series of sturdy leather straps ensured that the armor would sooner rip in half before it fell off. A golden crescent with prongs facing the ceiling sat upon every elaborate headdress, unifying the many different sizes and designs.

Yasuo eyed the ostentatious gear standing at attention, the fancy architecture of the dojo that protected him, and the gaping opening standing before him. Sounds of the fighting echoed across the battlefield, and the young Shogun's restless pacing increased in speed. The din was gradually growing louder, signifying that the battle was moving closer.

The young man was tall, and though his form was slender, he was in no sense of the word weak. He wore no shirt or shoes, revealing washboard abs marred by scars. Puffy, sky-blue pants held in place by a thick rope covered lean, muscular legs. A simple piece of small cloth the same color as his pants wrapped around his neck, partially concealing his face. An armor piece that almost seemed to be crafted from waves of water sat on his left shoulder. Jet-black hair was done up in a ponytail, a comically large, poofy mass sticking straight out.

"Yasuo, cease this pacing at once! It is making me feel… uneasy," commanded a frail, old man seated on a bench nearby. The man was the designated Elder for the Navori province; immediately after receiving news of the Noxian invasion, The Council of Elders ordered the evacuation of all peoples from the southern isles. Unfortunately, the political figurehead holed up in the temple was the only Elder south of Navori that answered; the Chiefs responsible for Galrin and Shon-Xan remained disconcertingly silent. The remaining Elder was therefore dubbed the top priority, and a protection detail of Kashuld Clan warriors had been assigned to defend him and await an extraction.

Yasuo replied with an agitated edge to his gruff voice, "I should not be hiding here like a coward. I would be more useful fighting alongside my brothers." Yasuo had made it clear from the start that he was unsatisfied with his current role.

"Then who would protect me?" the Elder responded in an inquisitive voice devoid of annoyance or fear; he hadn't been selected for one of the most important positions in the Ionian government for nothing.

Yasuo grunted. He could clearly hear the screams of dying men. They were very close, and their proximity kept the Samurai's senses on high alert. He desperately craved to cut down the invaders with his trusty blade strapped to his waist. He was seriously contemplating ditching the old man to slay Noxian scum.

' _If they reach the dojo, it is all over anyways…_ ' he thought, convinced by his own reasoning.

The Elder must have noticed a change in the man's stance. "Where do you think you are going?" he inquired, but he already knew the answer.

With new resolve, the shirtless warrior replied in a confident, arrogant tone, "I am going to end this. Stay here, and no harm will come to you."

"I am not so sure," the Elder replied in a worried voice. But the Shogun hadn't heard him because he was already halfway to site of the conflict.

As he approached the fighting, he noted gravely, ' _They have already reached the garden. Not good._ '

Yasuo rounded the corner and paused, spectating the struggle for dominance in an attempt to gain some kind of idea on where to lend his aid. What he saw did not please him.

Although the dark curtains of night had fallen, the opposing forces were not hard to distinguish. The elegant padding outlined in blue resembling the dormant soldiers standing guard inside the temple covered the Ionian defenders. The Clansmen's shimmering blades whistled through the air, their signature katanas slicing their foes in smooth strokes that flowed effortlessly into the next move.

In contrast, the attacking Noxians donned heavy, bulky chest plates and helmets able to withstand the strongest blows. Though their weapons were crude and dull, they nonetheless proved effective in the act of killing. Their fighting style was jerkier and more spontaneous, but the randomness of their strikes proved incredibly difficult to avoid. Axes and swords alike were red with the blood of the young Shogun's clan mates, and that just served to kindle the flames of fury raging in his heart.

Even though they were losing, the Kashuld Clan were the superior fighters. For every Samurai that fell, at least three Noxian warriors followed suit. However, the Noxian forces preached strength in numbers, and the sheer volume of black "knights" was too much for the clan to handle.

Yasuo eyed the writhing mass of bodies, selecting a group of Samurai that seemed to be in the middle of a rock and a hard place. He unsheathed his weapon and relished the feel of the wind whip around his body.

With a mighty war cry that would send shivers down the spine of the most fearless of soldiers, he leapt higher than any man could possibly hope to with the aid of the wind. As he descended upon the invaders, he vowed not to stop until the rivers ran red with the blood of his enemies.

ooooo

Whoever the blue warrior was, he was thoroughly kicking their asses. The tide of battle had shifted drastically; Riven's forces could no longer advanced on the temple thanks to the single Ionian cutting down dozens of her men effortlessly. While the men dead at her feet may not have been the most pleasant crowd, they were still her soldiers, and she had grown to respect many of them.

Riven knew that if they had any chance of succeeding in their mission, she would either need to face the warrior one-on-one or find a different path to the elder safely nestled inside the belly of the dojo. At the moment, Riven couldn't formulate a plan that allowed her to easily slip away; she herself had slain so many of the Ionian guards that even when she attempted to seek refuge behind a wall of Noxian soldiers, the Samurai would simply fight their way through the throng to engage her regardless. Even if she did manage to disappear from their radar, the only path to the dojo was wide open and unobstructed.

This left her the only option to dispatch of the shirtless Shogun once and for all, but for the first time ever, Riven wasn't confident in her ability to win the fight. She had noticed the telltale gusts of cool night air, his propensity to attack in bursts of three, and his inhuman speed. He was the first user of the _Wind Technique_ Riven had ever seen, and it unnerved her that she had no idea whatsoever how to counter the style. She couldn't count on Katarina- while her handling of a blade was nothing to be ashamed of, she was an assassin at heart, specializing in backstabs and stealthy maneuvers rather than open engagement.

' _If it'll win the battle…_ ' Riven sighed. She inhaled deeply, steeling herself for what could possibly be her end. She'd never feared death, no; what she feared was letting her country down.

Sword in hand, she waded through her comrades to face the unknown warrior on the front lines. Her target was currently dealing with four of Riven's soldiers at once with expert blows placed in unprotected locations. When they were swiftly cut down, he turned to face the woman standing not far from where he was positioned.

An air of understanding passed between them, and Riven noticed a small clearing had conveniently parted around them.

She raised her sword so that the oversized blade pointed in a downward diagonal angle.

He grasped his ornamented katana straight in front of him, the wickedly sharp edge glinting with a similar sheen as his intense eyes.

They lunged simultaneously, blades meeting with a loud _clang!_ The duo strained themselves trying to loosen the other's footing in the hopes of creating an opening. To the blue warrior's visible surprise, Riven was stronger, gradually pushing him backwards and threatening to topple him over. The force of the struggle drove the Samurai's feet into the dirt, but he didn't show the least amount of concern.

He had a few tricks up his nonexistent sleeve, as Riven would come to discover.

A massive pillar of air collected behind the Shogun, and Riven's eyes went wide. All at once, the swirling maelstrom of wind sprung forth, smashing Riven's block and sending her tumbling head over heels into the ground.

She quickly regained her purchase on the dirt, and rolled backward to dodge a silver flash of steel not two inches away from where her exposed throat would've been. She finished the cartwheel with a kneel and barely parried three of the fastest consecutive strikes she'd ever seen.

Her back was now practically pressed against the walls of the "arena" they tussled in, and she was nearly impaled by a stray thrust of a spear from one of her own troops. Finding the smallest gap between a set of three slashes, she rolled away. Unfortunately, she wasn't quick enough, and she felt punishment for her lack of speed in the searing pain of a shallow wound inflicted by an impossibly agile blade. Riven's adrenaline was coursing through her veins, though, so she hardly noticed the injury.

The platinum-haired commander was now standing in the middle of the open dirt patch in the middle of the melee. Her battalion had gained the upper hand during their confrontation, and the warrior noticed the reversion.

Riven didn't even have half a second to breath before the Samurai struck again. She realized with dismay that in her current state, she was outmatched. Unless she finally revealed her ace in the hole, she would join her fallen comrades on the battlefield, her life force draining into the ruined Zen gardens.

The speed at which the blue warrior closed the 15 foot distance between them startled Riven, and she was (surprise!) inches away from her demise once again. He almost seemed to glide over the ground on a carpet of air, and with his obvious mastery of the _Wind Technique_ , it wouldn't surprise Riven if that were the case. She couldn't believe how fast and proficient the man was at the art of swordplay; whatever attempt at an attack she made was swiftly and efficiently parried, then countered with a gust of icy wind or a powerful, bare foot to her abdomen. Her stomach ached from the abuse, and her shoulders and elbows were scuffed and dirtied from countless somersaults into the earth. While she was tired and sweating profusely, he didn't seem even mildly fazed.

Finally, Riven saw her chance. In a stroke of luck, Riven managed to counter the wind warrior's final move in his series of three. Shoving him off balance, she slammed the ground in a violent release of her inner Ki. The outburst threw him several feet backwards, but he recovered halfway through and transferred the remaining momentum into an impressively agile backflip.

Calling upon the wind, she swung her sword on a horizontal plane. A wall of solid air seemingly originating from the blade itself flew forth and collided into the sprinting Shogun. He was very clearly not expecting the move and it showed; he didn't even make an attempt to dodge the barrier of wind.

Crying out in bewilderment, he sailed straight into the thick horde of men and women exchanging deadly blows. He was so caught off guard that his katana had been ripped from his skillful hands and plunged itself into a mound of red earth. Had anything particularly significant occurred, it might seem almost symbolic in nature, though Riven wondered if it hadn't been the wind that planted the finely-crafted weapon in such a unique manner.

Instead of hunting the man down, Riven wisely decided to make a break for the dojo. If the Ionians spotted her, they would be too busy fighting for their lives to stop the Commander from breaking form.

As she sprinted from the melee, she became aware of all of her injuries at once. Cuts and contusions she'd received from the superior blue warrior pocked her lithe frame. Most had scarred over already, but deeper wounds like the one that scored her backside still bled with a vengeance. She panted heavily with exhaustion; she seriously hoped this "threat to national security" was unguarded.

Right as Riven was about to round the corner to the training grounds, an almost inaudible thump sounded from above. Riven's heart kick started, thinking the near invincible warrior had dropped in for a rematch, but the blood roaring in her ears died down when the person spoke.

"Sloppy," a feminine voice berated her.

Behind her, Katarina stood tall and confident clutching dual blades soaked in red. Riven also noticed the ugly, purple bruises the redhead now wore with no small amount of guilty pleasure; Riven had decided that she hated the Noxian assassin after recent events.

She continued to belittle the platinum-blonde, "With form like that, how did you ever expect to defeat him?

Riven snarled, "You don't look so good yourself. Did you finally meet someone who was more sinister than the Sinister Blade?"

The taunt made the assassin flinch, and Riven couldn't hold back a smug grin of satisfaction.

"Says the one who got their ass handed to them by some shirtless prick with a fancy sword," she spat in retaliation.

"As if you could beat him?" Riven scoffed. The assassin was definitely good, but the ashen-haired woman would bet her hard earned money that not even Katarina could best the Shogun that was likely tearing the place up right now. Riven suddenly came to the chilling realization that there wasn't a single individual present that stood a chance against the Samurai Master.

' _All the more reason to find and eliminate the threat as soon as possible._ '

Katarina ignored the comment, instead waltzing around the corner to stroll up to the entrance of the temple. "I located the quarry while you were dancing around with your thumb up your ass."

Riven bristled, but didn't respond. Reluctantly, she followed Katarina to the open entryway. Snaking through long hallways and corridors, the duo silently closed in on their objective, weapons drawn and at the ready.

As they entered a sanctuary reserved for praying, they found an old man crouched in front of some sort of shrine in a large room dimly lit with candlelight. He was meditating, sitting on his knees with his hands on his thighs, head bent slightly forward. When he heard the attackers arrive, he looked up and stared at the wall opposite the two warriors.

All was quiet for a long time before the man finally spoke, "…You are here for me, yes?"

"You're the Elder for the Navori province?" Katarina demanded.

A chuckle, then, "Yes, that is what they call me." The man was not afraid. In fact, he seemed amused at the situation.

"Then by order of Noxus, I sentence you to death," Katarina finished curtly, taking large, quick strides toward the stranger on the floor.

"Whoa, whoa, hang on here! _This_ is our target? _This_ is what threatens the survival of Noxus?!" Riven spluttered in disbelief. First a child, then a harmless old man? When the redhead simply nodded, Riven spat out, "What the Hell are we doing, Katarina? Why haven't I been informed of any of this? First it was the 'military outpost' that we- no _you_ \- ended up razing to the ground, and now we have to kill this old man because he 'threatens to weaken the stability of Noxus?'"

Katarina grimaced. Restrained fury was threatening to spill forth and consume her.

The old man finally stood up. He recognized that tone; it was the voice of someone who was discovering they slept with monsters. In a sympathetic, logical voice, he explained, "They knew that you could not complete the mission, for you are not like them. Where your superiors, your Noxian High Command, are unethical, immoral, and ruthless-," Katarina snorted, "-you are kind, compassionate and honorable. You are not capable of the mindless violence they require for their corrupt agenda; I can see it your eyes, child."

Riven stood completely still, attention locked on the man spewing endless wisdom that struck a chord within her.

The old man's virtuous expression turned sour as his gaze shifted to the assassin staring daggers at him and spat, "That is why they send _her_ to accompany you. Because unlike you, _this_ woman craves the feel of steel striking flesh. She is with you to make certain that you do not stray from the path they have laid out for you. She very much wants to end me now, I can sense the bloodlust exuding from her being in waves."

"Enough!" the redhead shouted. "Riven, as your superior, I command you to end this miserable cretin's life! Now!"

But Riven was paralyzed. She looked to Katarina, then the Elder, then back again. Finally, in a wavering, hushed voice, "…Is it true? Is what he said true, that you think I'm-" Riven choked on the word, "weak?"

Katarina laughed, and the grating sound added to the already-present tension hovering in the air. She criticized, "I really did misjudge you, Riven. You're more foolish and ignorant than I thought you were."

When Riven only stared at her in confusion, she continued in an exasperated manner, "Of course it's true Riven. Did you _really_ think you were invited into the Crimson Elite because you were good at waving that ridiculous sword around? It was to keep you on a _leash_ , Riven, to make sure you wouldn't do anything you would regret!"

Riven's soul was already damaged and bleeding, but Katarina continued to twist the knife. "I see now that we were justified in our actions. You wept, you actually felt _sorrow_ for those Ionian _pigs_ at the harbor!"

"She was a child! She was no older than 10 and I cut her down like an animal because of you!" Riven wailed, the memory still fresh in her mind.

"She was _Ionian_ ," Katarina insisted.

"Why the fuck does that matter?! She was a kid! She still had life to live, and I took that chance away from her!" Riven screamed in agony.

Katarina sighed, index finger and thumb grasping the bridge of her nose as her eyes closed in frustration. After a tense moment, she coaxed, "Listen, there's still a way to recover from this… _slip-up_. Kill the Elder, and let his blood fertilize the soil beneath us. Do that, and none of this ever happened."

For the second time that night, Riven was forced to decide her future. She pondered long and hard, weighing the options and letting them play out in her mind. If she killed the Elder, she would murder another person who didn't deserve to die. If she refused, she doubted Katarina would let her walk way.

With an exhausted exhale, she made her decision. She gripped the handle, knowing the likely consequences that her actions carried. She would not let herself become an executioner.

"No," Riven answered in a small voice.

" _What was that?_ " The threat seeped into every word that Katarina spoke.

A brief intake of cinnamon flavored air, then louder and more confident, "No. I will not kill him. He's done nothing to deserve that fate."

"You really are _weak_. But that doesn't matter now. You have defied a direct order from your superior." Green eyes glittered with anticipation, and her feet spread into a combat stance. Blood-red lips curved upwards into a menacing smirk as she drawled, "You know what this means, don't you?"

The Elder took several steps back.

Riven simply nodded, preparing for another brutal battle.

With no warning, Katarina lunged with both blades extended, howling ferociously. Riven dodged the move with a pirouette, bringing her sword up into a guard. The redhead turned and in one smooth move, drew and slung two kunai directly at Riven's head. With great difficulty, she somehow managed to block the poisoned knives with the flat of her blade.

When she returned her attention to the assassin, she found she wasn't there. Riven didn't have time to search before she felt cold steel cut deep into the flesh of her back. She felt a petite, yet powerful foot slam into her fresh injury. She stumbled forward but caught herself in time to parry a flurry of attacks from the furious redhead. Unfortunately, Katarina had two weapons and she knew how to use them.

Riven's whole body felt wet from the bloody cuts and lacerations she now wore. She was so tired, and she felt the dread of battling a more skillful fighter for a second time.

Then all at once the frontal assault ceased, but Riven didn't pause; she knew what was happening. Determined not to be duped by the same trick twice, she whipped around, blindly swinging in a frantic attempt to do anything to the Noxian assassin.

She felt it connect solidly, and followed up with two more horizontal slashes. For a moment, she thought she'd won. But then she finally noticed exactly who it was that she'd hit, and she gasped in horror.

The Elder whose name Riven didn't and never will know stood there calmly, peacefully, and with three red streaks crossing his kimono and neck. His eyes were closed, and after a short period of stunned silence, he slowly crumpled to the wooden floor.

Katarina cackled somewhere off to her right and menacingly teased, "Only an _amateur_ would make a mistake so dire! I see now it might be practical to let you live; your clumsy stumbling has won us the battle!"

Riven turned to face the woman, but with a graceful leap into the rafters, Katarina launched herself out of range.

"Trust me darling I'd _love_ to finish the job personally, but I've got a surprise for those Ionian cowards out front. See you in _Hell~!_ " she explained in a singsong voice. Katarina blew a kiss and wink that made Riven shudder, and then she vanished, no doubt teleporting away to gift her present to the soldiers still clashing before the dojo.

Riven kneeled at the man's side, desperately checking for a pulse. She recoiled when his hand shot out to tightly grasp her wrist.

"I-I didn't-…I'm so sorry…" was all Riven could think to say. She bowed her head in shame, the familiar tightness gripping the back of her throat. "I thought you were-"

"Hush, child," he gurgled, red liquid oozing from the gaping opening in his jugular. "I…do not…blame….you…"

It did nothing for Riven's conscience, but he continued anyway. His wheezing was growing more labored with every word uttered, and Riven reached to her satchel to grab bandages to try to stop the bleeding.

"It is…too late… for… that…child…" he stopped her.

"I'm so sorry…" she repeated, voice breaking.

He opened his mouth to speak again, and Riven leaned in close, ear almost touching his lips. "They… are… not your friends….find….Lee…Sin….He will show you….the way….I…do…no-…not…b-blame…." his final words were cut short as he sighed one last time, then went limp.

Riven raised her head and gazed upon his lifeless form. Though his end was violent and painful, he appeared serene and at peace. His expression was one of tranquil acceptance, and his eyes stared at the Heavens as if beckoning the starry people above to come and take him away from the mortal world. Riven hoped that was the case; his forgiving and understanding nature was apparent even in the final moments before death's sleep claimed him.

Riven ghosted her fingers over his retracted eyelids and softly pulled them closed. More tears stained her cheeks and dripped onto the dead man's silk robe, decorating the kimono with damp polka-dots.

It was then that Riven made her promise: she would never kill again unless provoked. She had severely underestimated the mental capacity it took to end one's life, and she was now suffering heavily for it. If fulfilling this vow required her retirement from the Noxus military, then so be it. The young girl and the old man would not die in vain.

She stood, but almost fell again when she felt the full effects of her injuries. Such was the case when one attempts to take on more than they could handle.

When she hobbled back to the battlefield, her heart plummeted into her stomach. She arrived just in time to witness a sea of Ionian reinforcement's charge the clearing. The iron-clad warriors of the island nation poured in an overwhelming wave across the battlefield, dispersing her forces effortlessly. The dark throng of soldiers moved as one entity, stretching and shrinking as bodies fell.

Riven's mind scrambled for a plan of any kind; they were being butchered by the Ionian retaliation. They needed backup and now.

Seconds later, she wished she was more careful about what she wished for.

An earsplitting foghorn louder than anything Riven had ever heard in her life resonated throughout the cool night air. The intensity of the sound made her knees buckle and she collapsed. The same effect was had by every person engaged in the conflict.

After it ended, Riven could hear a faint ringing in the depths of her ears. At first, she thought she'd contracted tinnitus, but the annoying, high pitched buzzing died away shortly after.

She looked into the sky to identify the source of such an awful noise, and found it in the enormous Zaunite gunship watching over from above. Riven recalled Katarina commenting on "having a surprise for those Ionian cowards," and horrendous claws seized her heart as she realized what was going to happen.

' _No, they couldn't, they wouldn't…_ ' she tried to assure herself. But she remembered the village, how they had mercilessly pummeled the shacks holding fisherman, and how if they could do it to innocent civilians, there was no reason that they couldn't do it to soldiers.

' _But we're on their side; we're still here fighting! They wouldn't attack their own troops…would they?_ '

Her question was answered when the monstrous cannons ignited and sent their terrifying contents shooting towards the dojo and its gardens. The onyx blanket shielding the nation from the sun flooded with an emerald light as noxious orbs rained down in a wall of glowing death.

Riven just stood there, staring at the incoming assault as it dashed towards them. She'd never been on the receiving end, and she could now truly understand the inescapable feeling of hopelessness. How could you run from something that was everywhere at once?

Even though her irises were crimson, the surface of her eyeballs was glassy and nonresponsive. The whites of her eyes served as the backdrop for the reflection of the viridescent fireworks show aimed at wiping them off of the map. Riven was completely entranced by the shower from above; it was almost beautiful in in its finality.

The quaking earth caused by the collision of artificial asteroids shook Riven out of her spell, and she whipped around to bust ass back to the dojo. However, before she could begin her frenzied scurry towards safety, a large man in Noxian armor stumbled into her and the two collapsed to the ground with Riven pinned beneath the barbarian. When he wouldn't even budge, she lay limply in acceptance of her fate.

The comets burst on the ground, spreading their poisonous package all over the delirious crowd of men around her. Tortured screams shared space in the atmosphere with the weapons of mass destruction. Riven's scared, panicked eyes darted around the clearing, taking everything in. Ionian and Noxian soldiers alike clawed at their armor covered in acid as their clothes ate away their flesh and bone. What was left of their heads was permanently contorted into agony as their skin melted off of their faces. Soldiers writhed in pain and clutched at their burning appendages.

Riven's hands braced her head, eyes shut, teeth gritted together, knees between her elbows as she curled into the fetal position beneath the fallen man. It was all too much; the death of the child, the passing of the old man, and the betrayal were all more than her fragile mind could handle. She sobbed and screamed for mercy beneath the man whose own wails had long ago died out.

"Make it stop! _MAKE IT STOP!_ " Riven pleaded between fits of crying.

And then it stopped.

The earth stilled, and the explosions gave way to Riven's endless screaming. It was the only audible sound, save for the bubbling of caustic fluid that ran in rivers mixed with blood and gore. There was no moaning, no groaning of survivors because there were none. Every single person that had been present for the massacre was dead. All except the lone woman lying beneath the warrior.

As Riven tried to wipe the tears from her red, puffy eyes, she noticed that she had not gone untouched; the skin on her left forearm was burnt to a crisp and peeled off at the slightest provocation. The bile had corroded through her armor in several places, but none to the extent of her left gauntlet. The adrenaline had mercifully decided to spare her the pain from the revolting excuse of an arm, and the platinum-haired woman managed to roll the considerably lighter man off of her prone form.

She didn't stand up yet. Instead, she clutched her knees to her chest much like how she did with the child's head. Wide, shell-shocked eyes stared straight forward as Riven rocked back and forth and back and forth. She couldn't comprehend what had just happened. Her own country had fired upon its own protectors. It was unthinkable. It was unjust.

It wasn't the Noxian way to do things.

The first thing Riven noticed was the smell. Putrid and repugnant fumes nearly choked her as they emanated from the exhumed graveyard. It was the smell of carrion and rot, that nauseating, vile scent that wafted from the dead men and women around her. The horrid odor snapped Riven to her senses, and she shakily regained her footing.

The second thing she noticed was the gruesome sight. Although it was night, toxic sludge cast sickly green light onto mountains of corpses. Soupy husks covered the field, and what was left of the bodies appeared to have been there for weeks. Bloated and necrotic the carcasses gurgled beneath a clear sky- Riven must have sat there for a long time, because the thing responsible for the carnage was nowhere in sight.

' _This is the last straw,_ ' Riven bitterly concluded. Everyone she'd marched with, everyone she'd trained with was gone because her beloved country decided that their lives weren't worth saving. ' _Swain, Katarina, High Command, they've all corrupted my homeland. The Noxus as it is now is not my home. It's something evil now._ ' She steadily regained her composure, her breathing was now somewhat normal.

' _I can't go back. Not after this, this… treachery._ ' She took a deep breath of foul air, and cleared her mind. She needed to be absolutely sure in her convictions before she committed her first act of treason.

Riven spoke in an unexpectedly brave voice, to the remains of the clearing, "I hereby renounce my Noxian membership. I am no longer tied to the ways of that hateful nation of racists and xenophobes, and I promise to repay the Ionian people who have suffered at my hand. I am no longer Riven the Commander: I am now Riven the Exile."

Nothing. She didn't know what she was expecting, talking to the dead.

She brought her sword into view. It was her only friend, the only thing she could actually trust. She lightly fingered each rune, running her hand up and down the length of the blade. It was magnificent, and it was also the final step to freedom.

She needed something strong, like the boulder protruding from the ground a little ways off at the tree line. She walked on wobbly legs toward the craggy rock and stopped two feet away.

Dropping into a sloppy combat stance, she inhaled and raised the weapon above her head. Without hesitation, she brought it back down with all of her might. Instead of breaking, the sword burrowed itself into the uneven stone. It wouldn't budge when she tried to retrieve it.

With a frustrated shout, she sent her foot flying into the flat of blade. Her strike was assisted by both the wind and her Ki, amplifying the power tenfold.

The sword shattered, hilt flying off to bury itself in a nearby tree. Riven looked down to the dull shards that used to be her prized saber with regret. She had to remind herself that the thing was not hers; it belonged to Noxus, and the weapon's destruction was imperative to her new quest.

Riven also removed the damaged gear she still wore. Almost all of her protection littered the ground save her right glove and shin guard and her left shoulder brace. Even they had suffered some disfigurement, but they were still wholly usable.

Jumpy and jittery, Riven limped away from the macabre display of Zaunite scientific "genius." As a brief afterthought, the beaten platinum-blonde shuffled over to dislodge what remained of her weapon from the oaken tree. It now resembled a wide dagger, and she holstered it in its sheath.

Riven figured she needed to leave Ionia as soon as possible. She wanted to follow the Elder's wishes and find the man named Lee Sin, but she needed to be alive in order to do anything in the first place.

With heavy limbs and a heavier heart Riven the Exile hobbled towards the first peachy signs of the rising sun, intent on returning Noxus to its former glory.


	5. Chapter 5- The First Step

**Sorry about the delay! I've been the worst combination of sick and busy, and I haven't really had the time to commit to this project. Also, I had trouble trying to figure out how I want the story to play out; this chapter was almost completely different. Anyway, 2 years have passed since Riven officially donned the moniker of "The Exile," and the Noxian-Ionian war rages on. I'm also noticing a startling lack of reviews, and I hate to extort what few fans I have, but more reviews most likely equals a faster update time. Please enjoy! Edit: Just some grammar and stuff.**

 **10 Years Ago**

The immaculate shoreline crunched beneath leather sandals worn by years of tireless travel across the seemingly infinite biomes of Valoran. However, these shoes had never marked their small, lonely trail on the expanse of land known as Ionia before, and as the spotless sheet of gold reflected the pleasantly warm sunrays of late morning, the ragged pair of sandals lightly shuffled the distance between the harbor to the cluster of huts and homes.

The village appeared to be ripped from a painting, or perhaps a postcard sent by rich vacationers hiking through exotic jungles. A harbor jutted out from the sandy beach, sails of various colors, though most were white, bobbed steadily and peacefully, carefully tied down to a wooden dock that creaked and groaned as passersby tread upon its surface. The band of bamboo homes took shelter in the shade of an immense, green forest that housed surprisingly docile creatures big and small, spotted and plain, agile and sluggish. The tree line served as a border for the village; there were no other shacks beyond the dense, leafy wall of greenery.

Wind chimes and colorful dreamcatchers danced elegantly in the cool, morning breeze. Decorative masks hung off of walls, their purposes as wild and fantastical as the facial expressions they wore; some brought luck while others warded off evil. Unfortunately for the people living in the picturesque community, there was more of the latter these days than there ever should be with the unrelenting Noxian army decimating anything in their bloody warpath to the far South.

But the atmosphere of the people did not reflect dire times, no; judging by their mood and their actions, they were happy and calm. Laughter emanated from every alleyway, spread by playful children running and chasing each other with inexhaustible energy. The little tykes' elders watched over them with smiles adorning rough, wrinkly faces shaped by decades of hard work. Smells of freshly grilled fish and herbs wafted from spit roasts sporting the day's catch. There were no merchants, no peddlers, no hawkers desperately trying to fill their quotas. The people believed whole-heartedly in generous donation and sharing, so anyone could waltz up at any time to claim a tasty morsel smoking above a sizzling flame.

The owner of the footwear licked her lips as she gazed upon the meat openly displayed to the public. However, she did not take one, thinking themselves unworthy of the charitable offer. Years prior, the hooded figure had personally partaken in the demise of a village much like this one, and thus she believed that taking such a fine delicacy from the people equated to stealing. Besides, the stranger prowling the streets wasn't in Ionia to sample the food. She was on a mission: to find a man named Lee Sin and pay for the mistakes she'd made in the past.

"Welcome, stranger," a deep, sincere voice off to her right startled her.

The cloaked woman looked to the speaker and found a smiling old man wearing a straw hat. Wisdom and compassion swam in endless, almond-shaped eyes, and he appeared relaxed. The woman was not expecting such a warm reception, and she was questioning whether those eyes had blurred with time. She was sure that her darker skin would give away her Noxian heritage, but the man either didn't notice or didn't care.

With a hesitant smile, she replied, "Greetings. Don't worry, I don't plan on staying long."

"Why the rush, young one? Stay awhile, eat, drink! You must be hungry after such a long journey at sea."

Confused, she explained, "Can't you tell? I'm…Noxian." She expected anger, resentment, maybe even fear, but when the man's expression didn't change, she continued, "I can't imagine my kind is well liked around here."

"No, 'your kind' is typically shamed, then exiled to the farthest reaches." He stated matter-of-factly. She recoiled, expecting him to do just that. Instead, he said, "But we are not city-goers. We do not hold grudges; it is foolish to shun a whole race based on the actions of a few. Besides," he chuckled, "if you were here to raid and pillage, I would be dead now, wouldn't I? As I far as I can tell, I am still very much alive."

The woman had to smile at that. There was logic behind his actions, and kindness in his heart, a combination she rarely stumbled upon on the Continent.

His next words took her off guard. "Please, allow me to invite you to my humble abode. You are obviously very hungry, and I am interested in hearing about your travels."

She stuttered, "A-Are you sure? You just met me! I'm-"

"A famished traveler who needs sustenance just like the rest of us. Please, it would be my pleasure."

She sighed. He was right; she wasn't just hungry, she was ravenous and sick of stale biscuits and almost-raw, unidentifiable fish that had been served daily aboard the galleon that landed her where she was now. "Alright. I graciously accept your offer."

His grin widened in content, and he turned on his heel after saying, "Good. Follow me, my home is not far."

The woman nodded, and followed.

"Not far" ended up being 20 feet away. The stranger felt the curious stares of the natives as she followed the man, and she suddenly became very uncomfortable. She hadn't set foot on the island province in 2 years, but the Noxian-Ionian war affected everyone in Valoran. While she hadn't been present for the struggle, she'd heard news and stories so extraordinary in nature, the woman sometimes had trouble distinguishing the two. According to nosy children, oblivious guardsmen, and gossiping housewives, Noxus still utilized the terrifying war machines to brutal extent. The bloodthirsty city-state was able to capture the two southern islands of Galrin and Shon-Xan practically overnight, and the Navori region soon followed.

Ionia may have been a peaceful state, but that didn't mean the inhabitants would allow themselves to be steamrolled by the invaders. The ensuing counter attack ferociously forced the aggressors to a stalemate, and Noxus' captured territory hadn't grown by an inch since that first fateful night.

The stranger, lost in thought, almost collided with their guide when the old man halted in front of a chanty that looked the same as the rest. The man knocked three times, then swung open the "door" consisting of a plank of driftwood tied with string to a broken oar.

' _Still cozier than my room on that glorified fishing trawler._ '

The space inside the shack was cozy indeed, with startlingly vibrant sheets blanketing the interior. Walls that weren't covered in beautifully crafted tapestries were filled with ornate carvings and totems, and what little light that shone through the thatched roof highlighted the masterful workmanship. The floor was padded with a rug woven from bamboo and random scraps of cloth, adding to the already rich color scheme.

Then the woman noticed the two were not alone. A dark-haired woman who'd aged well turned from the pot on the stone stove across the room to smile at her presumed husband and the unknown outsider. The older woman gracefully closed the distance and placed a light kiss on the man's cheek as a young girl, no older than 10 or 11 years old with flowers tucked into amber waves of hair rushed from some unidentified source and crushed the man's legs in a bear hug. When the child noticed the stranger, she didn't let up on her embrace of her father, instead shifting her head to stare at the woman with big, adorable eyes.

The woman smiled at the child, and after a moment's hesitation, the girl deemed the stranger an acceptable guest and skipped over to her.

"Who are you? Where did you come from? Why are you here?" she asked curiously.

"Kumiko!" the mother scolded, then looked apologetically at the stranger. "Apologies! She is a curious child, and has no control over her own mouth!"

The woman laughed for the first time in a long time before reassuring, "No worries, ma'am."

"She does have a point, though," the old man interjected, reminding the stranger of his presence. "You have yet to tell us your name, young one."

She didn't know why she was apprehensive; perhaps it was because she thought they would somehow link her name to the initial invasion of Navori, or perhaps upon hearing her name they would recognize Noxus' poster-child.

She shook her head, freeing herself from such foolish notions. She was her to cleanse her soul of guilt and reach some sort of absolution, and there was no conceivable way to achieve her goals if she stayed in the shadows.

After a short delay, the stranger finally revealed, "…Riven. My name is Riven."

"Very pleased to meet you, Riven!" the old man said. "I am Haruto. This is my beloved, Izumi. And this," Haruto's gaze shifted to the young girl still staring upward at their guest. Riven noted pride and unadulterated admiration in his soulful eyes and in his tone as he said, "this is my flower, my love, my everything." Izumi hugged her husband, and let her head fall to his shoulder as she looked at the duo's object of affection. It was obvious the two loved their daughter very much. "This is Kumiko."

Riven smiled, "Lovely name." She dropped to one knee so she was at eye level with Kumiko. It was then that she noticed a wooden pendant with an engraving pinned to her shirt.

Riven knew that insignia. Her blood ran cold with recognition, and her smile faltered before she could compose herself.

' _Can't be…_ ' she thought to herself.

"W-Where did you-?" Riven couldn't complete her sentence. Memories seized her mind, its cold clutches wrapping around her soul once again. Memories of tortured screams and cries of agony. Memories of oozing, caustic liquid burning a village to ashes. Memories of a screechy, frustrated redhead ordering her to commit the impossible crime. Memories of staring into dead, empty eyes. Memories of a lonely grave facing the restless sea.

A hand on her shoulder yanked her from her spiral into hopelessness. Riven looked up at the old man. He knew- she could see it in his eyes. He didn't what exactly she'd done, but he knew she'd done something terrible, something unimaginably inhumane.

A small voice turned her attention back to Kumiko, "Oh, you mean this?" The little girl beamed. "It's a special charm. The symbol means-"

"Friendship." Riven completed. The girl giggled, but immediately frowned and looked at her feet. Riven glanced at the girl's parents for an explanation, and the man filled her in.

"That pendant was gifted to her years ago. We had traveled south to a village much like our own. It was part of the annual Festival of Giving, where the people from all of the cities and towns across the land would gather and travel from village to village, bringing gifts and merriment to the remaining peoples. It is truly a sight to behold; paper lanterns float into the sky, and at the end of the night, you could not tell whether the dots of light in the sky were stars or blazing candles soaring to the heavens." His tone was whimsical, and a smile creeped across his aged face as he recounted, "I cannot remember the name of the village, but I remember the orchard. It was the most beautiful grove of cherry blossoms I have ever seen in my many years of life. The petals rained on our approach, and my little one here danced in the leaves. While the other children played together, my Kumiko only played with one. She was slightly older, but she was still as sweet and innocent as any other. Her name alludes me now."

"Hana!" The young girl interjected.

' _Hana. So that is- was her name. Hana…_ '

He chuckled, "Ah, yes, Hana! They played separately, but they were happy."

"She showed me how to put flowers in my hair and make 'em stay there," Kumiko chimed in.

"When the time to depart arrived, Kumiko did not want to leave her friend behind."

The young girl interrupted again, but her father did not seem frustrated. Instead, he seemed amused, and smiled at his daughter in an unspoken surrender.

"I didn't wanna go, but Hana told me not to be sad. She said that friendship lasts forever, and then she carved this medallion out of a fallen tree. She made one just like it for herself, and she told me she'd wear forever and ever." The mood darkened, and Riven had a good idea what would come next.

Haruto spoke this time, solemn and somber, "The village was one of the first to fall to Noxus. Rumor says," He glanced uneasily at his little girl, and leaned in so only Riven could hear, "there were no survivors."

Riven simply nodded. She didn't want to confirm everyone's worst fears, that Noxus took no prisoners, only laborers and military personnel with something juicy to spill. She didn't want to crush Kumiko's hopes and tell her the truth about the woman standing before the family.

There was a long period of silence as everyone absorbed the information. The cling-clang of wind chimes faintly drifted through the cracks and crevices and the blankets rippled softly.

It was the old man that broke the vigil. Attempting to revive the cheery ambiance of the previous introduction, he smiled and looked to his wife, "Ah, but enough about that. Our guest must be starving! How is lunch, Izumi?"

The old woman's face lit up, and she responded enthusiastically, "It is almost finished!" Izumi looked at Riven and asked, "Please, stay and eat with us! I am sure you have many tales to tell!"

Kumiko's eyes widened at the prospect, and she eagerly insisted, "Yeah, tell us your stories!"

Riven didn't want to burden the family, but they really did seem happy to serve her. The delicious aroma didn't help her case, and after careful consideration, she caved in to their request.

"Alright, you win." Riven conceded. The young girl was ecstatic at hosting such an interesting individual, and not a second had passed after Riven had taken a seat at the makeshift table stationed near the stove before Kumiko launched into an intensive interrogation of the wanderer's whereabouts.

Riven answered most of the little girl's questions, and thankfully Izumi finished their meal before the child could ask more personal queries.

After an undeniably superb dish of spiced rice and seasoned fish Riven thanked the family for the meal, but before she could resume her journeys, they'd successfully convinced the exile to stay for dinner on the grounds that she hadn't tasted Izumi's famous udon noodles.

"Besides," the old man had said, "I have promised to aid a friend in the rebuilding of his house." After receiving a confused glance from Riven, he had continued, "A pack of wild boars has been harassing the village for some time now, and my friend's house was destroyed in a scuffle."

"I could hunt the boars for you, if you want," Riven had offered, but Haruto had shaken his head, stating that a group of the village's strongest warriors were out searching for the offenders' den. She had agreed to help; it was the least she could do to repay his family.

The sun sauntered slowly across the sky until it hid from sight behind the jungle's canopy, and shortly after, the reconstruction crew finished their task with cheers and hurrahs. The ashen-haired woman had proven an invaluable asset to the process, lending her abnormal strength in hauling the heavy supplies and equipment and slicing through rigid bamboo stalks with her fragmented shard of a blade.

A small celebration that occurred every time a new home joined the huts of the shantytown had seen young women dance to the tune of wooden pipes played by skillful musicians. Dry rice was scattered over the ground and songs in the native tongue could be heard from the other side of the village.

Riven already like the island of Ionia; if the rest of the place was anything like this, she wouldn't have much to object to.

The duo returned to the man's home and talked until dinner was ready. Izumi's udon was hands-down one of the best meals Riven had ever consumed, and it easily topped the already wonderful rice and fish. Green onions and tofu swam in a steaming broth that accentuated the taste of thick, white noodles soaked in spices whose names Riven couldn't pronounce. Kumiko asked more questions, listening intently to each and every word uttered from the platinum-blonde's mouth.

Several refills of the mouthwatering, delectable stew later, Riven stood up from her perch on the handcrafted chair making to leave.

"Thank you for everything you've done for me. If you ever need anything, send out a message. Word travels fast across the continent, and I can almost guarantee that I can make it here within the month," she said before adding another "thank you" and walking toward the exit.

As she stepped out into the cool night air, she gazed up at the starry blanket. All was quiet save for the chirping of crickets and the occasional burst of laughter from a hut a ways down. The distant lights in the sky twinkled and shimmered beside a full moon hovering a moderate distance above the horizon. Riven appreciated the stars; when everything else went to shit, the celestial bodies were always in the same place every night. They moved with the seasons, but their disappearance was never permanent. Their ethereal beauty always revealed themselves no matter the circumstances, and Riven envied their security. Nothing could touch them from here, and their strength and wisdom was far beyond any limits Riven could ever hope to reach in this life or the next.

She became aware of another entity beside her.

"Beautiful, is it not?" It was the old man that had joined her in the dirt street. "I have always loved looking at the heavens. It helps ground me when I am troubled, makes me realize how small and insignificant I am in this vast universe. By juxtaposition, my problems always seem unimportant."

A long, respectful silence passed before he continued, "I know you are troubled, Riven."

Riven averted her gaze and stared at the old man beside her with mild surprise. He was staring right back with eyes brimming with understanding and sympathy. He turned his body toward her and placed a hand on her shoulder before speaking, "I can see how you sag under the weight of your burden, young one. I can see the sorrow and despair in your eyes as you lose hope every day."

Riven couldn't tear her eyes away from Haruto, and as he spoke, she felt the exhaustion he had diagnosed wash over her in waves.

His other hand traveled to her cheek as he informed her, "I want you to know, young one, that no matter what you have done, no matter how evil or despicable your past deeds are, you can move on. You do not think you have the power, but you underestimate yourself. If you can feel this much guilt, you have the capacity for at least that much good."

Riven released a ragged breath she didn't know she'd been holding when he said, "I forgive you, young one."

He drew her in for a comfortable hug, and she sighed. Hot tears spattered his shoulder as the first step of healing ran its course.

When they separated he asked her, "You are here for Lee Sin, yes?"

He chuckled at her shocked expression. "Why else would you come to a sleepy village such as this one?" He turned and pointed inland toward a row of huts and shacks obscuring the intended target. "Over that row of houses lies the start of the path to the Hirana Monastery. The trail is well tread and safe, and the temple welcomes visitors every day and every night. It is there that you will find the monk known as Lee Sin. Let him guide you on the path to Enlightenment, and you will finally know inner peace."

Riven nodded, and whispered, "Thank you."

He smiled and replied, "It is my pleasure, Riven. Good luck, though I doubt you will require its services." He turned to rejoin his family inside.

"Wait!" Riven requested, deciding that the family who'd sheltered her deserved her artifact more than she did.

He paused his progress and turned around.

"Please, take this." She produced Hana's amulet and held it out for Haruto to take.

His eyes filled with sadness and a wistful wishing that things could have turned out better. Nevertheless, he stepped forward and received the pendant, explaining, "It is my turn to thank you." He grasped the medallion, rubbing a thumb over the engraving. He looked up at her and told the woman, "I will give this to my Kumiko when she is older. Only then will she truly understand. I thank you." Then, with a nod of his head, he turned and left the woman to join his wife and daughter for the night.

Riven watched him go, thanking whoever pulled the strings that she just so happened to bump into a person such as him. She took in a deep breath, then released. Ready to move on with her life, she followed Haruto's directions to the path to the monastery and began the trek to the top of the hill where Lee Sin would help absolve her of guilt.


	6. Chapter 6- A Brother's Vow

**Oh for Hell's sake, why does everything in this story have to happen in the dark?! I'm running out of ways to describe the moon. Also, there is a LOT of crying in this story (this was not my original intention, I swear). I digress. Thank you destinysilence and Thorcanum for the reviews, and anyone else who hasn't yet left me a comment DO IT NOW (please). Edit: Shit was fucked for a while, but now it's not (hopefully). Heads up to Overlord Miles for the heads up! Edit 2: Tried to fix repetitive words and grammar mistakes, but I'm sure I've missed a few. Sorry bout that: I'm only one person with no one else that can proofread my stuff. Also, it probably doesn't help that I finish/upload most of this stuff at night.**

 **10 Years Ago**

A breeze cold and ominous whipped through delicate leaves of trees standing guard at the clearing. An emerald sea danced a synchronized tango beneath the dark shelter of the maple forest and seemed to spill forth from the tree line encompassing the quiet glade. The individual green stalks of the ballerinas gracefully swayed in the wind from the black sky like a mass of tiny puppets on display in a theater for children, with the twinkling stars above acting as their godly masters of manipulation. That fresh, earthy smell of land untouched by man rode the light gusts of air, accompanied only by the sounds of cicadas and the fluttering maple seeds.

The cascade of white butterflies was of great interest to the lone occupant of the clearing. Blue eyes full of anxiety were somewhat calmed by the observation of the falling angels. With a deft motion of his right hand, he drew his ornately-crafted weapon, the frigid metal scraping lightly against the scabbard creating a distinct _shink_. The man picked a target and effortlessly caught a bland kernel at the very tip of the blade. It balanced perfectly, but the man did not celebrate the accomplishment. It was a practiced move, one that he could likely complete with his vison obstructed.

Instead he gazed upon his captive audience. As he followed the veins on the paper wings, he felt a nostalgic sadness well in his soul. The two seeds of the helicopter were encased tightly together, their proximity bringing to mind the man's relationship with his brother, or at least, what it used to be. "Two peas in a pod," they had been described as, and the man had heartily agreed. His beloved sibling had taught him compassion, forgiveness, and the importance of self-control among other virtues typically held in high esteem

Alas, their tight bond had been ripped to shreds so small and thin that they could scatter in the breeze like the cluster of seedlings floating around him. It had been 2 years since the day Noxus had attacked. By some miracle he now wished he could take back he'd survived the biological Zaunite onslaught, and had the "privilege" of walking the battlefield to witness the destruction the invaders had left in their stead.

A brief glimpse of a frail body in the partially-leveled dojo was all the Shogun needed to confirm his fears: in his bloodlust for battle, he had failed his one mission. The Elder's death had heralded the total conquest of the Navori province, and the old man's passing was a great loss to the Ionian government. Although the Ionian army had halted the advancement of the Noxian front, the fall of the province had given the Noxian army Ionia's biggest croplands, and the defenders were forced to beg other nations for food and supplies. The Samurai's mistake was a costly one and he knew it well. For days he had hidden from his own friends and family in shame, but had eventually talked himself into doing the right thing.

However, when the disgraced Shogun had returned to his clan to accept punishment for his misgivings, he found that not only did they think him responsible for the death of his objective but also the killer of the Elder he'd protected. He had, of course, denied the accusation, but for some reason they wouldn't explain, his clan refused to accept his version of events. Shocked and confused he'd been forced to clash with his own flesh and blood, and by some stroke of luck, he'd managed to leave his friends and clan mates intact (mostly).

The same was not true to those who followed, the ones who ignored his pleas and vows to find the real murderer. One by one, they tracked him down; the man was renowned for his swordsmanship, not his stealth proficiency.

The first was a man of strength and vigor, his sword capable of severing trees the size of the average person's waist in two. That man had fallen swiftly, for he could not cleave the wind, but the wind proved it could cleave him.

The second was a woman of speed and agility, her skillful daggers able to assault even the smallest openings in her opponent's guard. She had died just as quickly, for nothing was faster or more cunning than the wind.

The third was behind the fugitive at this very moment, patiently waiting for his quarry to notice his presence.

The Samurai's hand quavered, and the tremor dislodged the leaflet. His arm fell to his side, and he turned to face the bounty hunter.

"Yone…" his voice faltered as he stared at his older brother's wearied visage. Dark bags hung from fatigued eyes, and Yone's expression conveyed exhaustion, hints of dread, and no small amount of dismay at having finally caught his target.

"Yasuo," was his reply. It was a statement, not a greeting. He loathed his role in his brother's execution and it was apparent in his tone; Yone didn't like this any more than Yasuo did.

"I do not know how I can convince you, Yone," Yasuo was desperately trying to prevent the inevitable, even though he knew how hopeless it was. He didn't know if he had the strength to do what needed to be done. "I did not kill that man! I admit I am the reason he is dead: I let impatience get the best of me and I left the man alone. But I am not-," a pained correction, " _was_ not a murderer. Yone, you have to believe me! No one else will!"

A sympathetic, yet melancholy smile creeped across his brother's face as he assured, "I know. You are prideful, arrogant, and mildly selfish, but you are not a stone-hearted traitor. Unfortunately, only I seem to realize this."

Hope piqued Yasuo's voice as he asked, "So, you are not here to kill me then?"

The smile disappeared. "You know the answer to that question." The younger man's heart plummeted into his stomach as the last remnants of his dream for peace shattered into a fine dust. "You are my brother, and in their eyes you are also a killer. As long as you are alive, our family name is disgraced."

Yasuo had realized this long ago. Honor was almost religiously praised in the Kashuld Clan, and Yasuo's act of treason had harmed his loved one's- Yone had just confirmed that. Yasuo hated that he was the cause of his family's suffering, but what he hated more was that there was nothing he could do to aid his brother and sisters. He knew that the only way to wipe the slate clean was for his sibling to return with news of Yasuo's death.

Suddenly curious, Yasuo asked, "Why am I the suspect in the murder of the Elder? I understand it was my duty to guard that old man, but why would I ever have any reason to end his life? I was the prized pupil! The act would and did ruin my reputation as an honorable warrior."

Yone finally shed light upon the situation competently and efficiently, "The Elder was killed with the _Wind Technique_. Who else could it be?"

Yasuo's eyes went wide. That would certainly explain his clan's hostility: as far as anyone knew, Yasuo was the last surviving practitioner of the _Wind Technique_.

' _Unless…_ ' goosebumps flourished across his pale skin as he recalled hurtling through the air into the fray of soldiers.

' _The white-haired woman._ ' How she had come to learn the near-extinct style was beyond the Samurai's imagination, but the fact was that she knew it, and if Yasuo wasn't the one to exterminate the old man in the temple, it didn't take a genius to deduce the perpetrator. He could return home and explain the mix-up, but he predicted that his clan would sooner expend all of their warriors to keep him from entering the cozy village than let a known assassin through the front gates. After a few more moments of contemplation, he discerned the ugly truth: one of the men standing in the clearing would not walk away.

"…There is no way to avoid this, is there?" the younger man questioned.

"No, there is not. One of us will die tonight, under the stars, while the other will continue on their path," Yone sounded resigned to his fate. The eldest knew he would be the one to perish from existence; while Yasuo was younger and less experienced, nothing could top his overwhelming amounts of raw skill and power.

Yasuo bowed his head and closed his eyes, trying to come to terms with what he must do. The younger man also knew who would win the ensuing battle, and he prayed that his blade would be steady enough to grant his loved one a painless death. The sound of grass shifting beneath a boot brought his head and eyelids upward.

Yone's feet were spread at shoulder-width apart, hunched over with his left hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His face a portrait of grim determination, he unsheathed his weapon and held it up in a guard.

Yasuo sighed, and assumed the same stance, quelling the abnormal gusts of wind that circled his toned form in a cyclone of pure air; he would not use the ancient style against his own kin. He mentally prepared for battle.

But before either engaged the other, Yone spoke in a stoical and direct manner that forced his younger brother to listen, "Yasuo, I need you to promise me something."

"Anything for you, brother."

"Promise me that you will find the real killer. Promise me that you will bring the Elder justice, no matter the cost." Then, in an emotional, less confident voice, "Promise me that my death will not be in vain."

A tightness had already developed at the back of Yasuo's throat, but he replied without hesitation, "I promise, Yone."

And then, the battle commenced. It was over as soon as it began. Yone had stepped into range of his younger, yet taller brother with his sword held high above his head. It was a stupid mistake that Yasuo knew was purposeful, and that hurt more than the blade that passed through Yone's neck.

Cold steel seared through warm flesh like a hot knife through butter, spilling the carmine contents of the older brother's throat onto the grassy knoll beneath them. A small cry resounded throughout the makeshift arena as Yone's vitality bubbled from the fatal wound. His brother had already dropped his sword and rushed to catch the falling warrior to keep him from tumbling awkwardly to the floor.

Yasuo held his dying brothers neck in one hand while the other was tightly clutched by Yone's. Tears rolled down his cheeks and onto his best friend's robe. He barely managed to choke out, "I am sorry."

"This is not…your fault..." his brother gasped, his face oddly calm and comforting. He placed a bloody hand on Yasuo's chest before gazing deep into the Samurai's blue eyes and wheezing, "You know what to do…"

That same, sorrowful smile, then his face relaxed, and his hand went limp, painting a red trail down Yasuo's exposed torso. The light of wisdom in his eyes that was always watching the world from his own unique perspective was extinguished, and his eyelids gradually hid matching blue irises. Yasuo wept openly, his whole body shaking and spazzing from his intense sobbing, unrelenting grief seizing his whole being. He pulled his dead brother's lifeless head to his chin and rocked back and forth, incoherently repeating apologies for his misdeed, "I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry…"

It was a long, long time before Yasuo could pull himself together enough release his literal death-grip on his brother and stand to his feet. He had no shovel, and there were no doubt more trackers following his trail, so he didn't have time to dig with his hands. He did, however, have his bedroll, his only possession beside his katana. He surrendered the bag without question; his nights would be spent on uncomfortable, bare earth, but at least he would awake from his deep slumbers. Gently, slowly he covered the body with the heavy, fleece blanket, making sure not to disturb the peaceful rest of his deceased brother. As a final touch, he plunged Yone's sword into the soft ground above the eldest's head.

Yasuo stood and bowed one final time before slipping silently into the dense perimeter of trees. He had a new lead, and he would not fail his brother a second time. The woman's distinct crimson eyes were no doubt her most prominent features, and rage the same color as her irises filled his chest. This was all _her_ doing. _She_ was the reason he had failed his task. _She_ was the reason why he ran from his clan mates. _She_ was the reason his brother lay still upon that majestic clearing. _She_ had made it personal.

Yasuo didn't see the seedling land on the bedroll in the glade because he was already so far away. He didn't notice how the white petal contrasted the dark fabric, or how it was only half of the leaflet that had settled upon the blanket. He didn't feel the sudden, almost violent gust of air that expelled the helicopter from the borders of the bedroll. He was too distant, too absorbed in his own thoughts to truly grasp the meaning of the act, for such a pronounced event was almost never coincidental in such a spiritual place as Ionia.

With new purpose, the shamed Shogun briskly tromped through the shadowy woodland. He was on the hunt, and he wouldn't stop until his prey lie dead at his feet.


	7. Chapter 7- The Blind Monk

**Alright, so it's like two in the morning where I am right now, so it might be lacking in quality. I'll get back to it when I don't need to concentrate on keeping my eyes open. Once again, thanks OverlordMiles for the heads up for last chapter. If you couldn't tell, I'd uploaded something wrong last time and it looked like something straight out of Javascript. It's fixed now, so if you wanna go back and read it now, you're welcome to. My version of Ionia that I have in my head is ancient Japan, so whenever I say Ionian, think Japanese. Also, in the canon universe, Lee burns his eyes out to protest the length of time between league matches. However, since in this universe the league doesn't exist, Lee will start off blind just cuz. Please leave comments, reviews, constructive critique, anything really! Except being a douchebag. Don't be a douchebag. No one likes a douchebag. Anyways, enjoy!**

 **10 Years Ago**

Soft eyelids gradually retracted to reveal crimson irises to the gentle morning light bathing the mountainside. Cracked lips pulled into a grimace as a hand lifted to shield the eyes from the sun's glorious rays. The character groaned, her stomach following her mouth's lead, as she slowly sat up to take in her surroundings. The ground beneath her was springy and mildly damp, the trees overhead casting long shadows onto the slanted earth. With little effort, she stood and recalled how and why she was here.

Haruto's definition of a "short trek" and "not far" were not synonymous, Riven had discovered. She'd traveled 5 miles under the cover of darkness up the cobbled steps to the temple and she hadn't seen any sign off stumbling across the shrine anytime soon. The woman, annoyed and tired, had decided that pitching camp was the wisest option available, and so she had done just that. Now that she was awake, however, Riven could just spy the rounding of the summit a short walk away.

She sighed. It was time.

The dewy grass was slippery but it gave Riven enough purchase that she didn't have to worry about losing her grip on the steep hill as she meandered back to the stone stairway. Her footsteps were light and measured; it wasn't as if her destination could be ripped from the ground and flown somewhere else.

' _Well, actually…_ ' Riven correcting herself, remembering rumors of a powerful sorceress suspending a palace high into the perfect sky in a fit of rage. If gossip held any truth, the woman and her temple remained there to this day, suspended above the world, shielded from view by white, fluffy clouds.

She was almost there. Riven was suddenly unsure if she should go through with her plan, but a short self-pep-talk convinced her to move forward.

Riven halted in her tracks when she rounded the crest and witnessed the monastery in all of its splendor. The temple was undeniably gorgeous. It stood built into and on top of a mesa that sat opposite her above and across a green sea of trees and spectacular gardens teeming with residents praying at awesome shrines and totems that protruded from the lush coverage like the many crude satellite dishes that topped the iron and cement forest of Piltover. Looking at the mountain from below, no one would have any clue whatsoever that such a utopia existed here.

From Riven's position, she gazed down into the valley for the lost from her high perch with wide eyes. After a few more moments of ogling, she shook her head, effectively breaking the trance the haven had on her. She turned her attention to the path which seemed to cut straight through the greenwood, winding lazily to and fro until it connected with the cliff-side cloister at the base of the plateau. Nodding her head once, seemingly confirming her target to herself, Riven descended the stairs into the bowl preceding the monastery.

The forest was even more beautiful walking the stone trail that toured many of the monuments she saw from her previous vantage point. Perfect ponds displayed glassy surfaces that rippled leisurely when precious, pink petals drifted from cherry blossoms in full bloom. Little streaks of soft sunlight peaked through the vibrant, leafy ceiling that created the perfect density of shade to block out the harsher rays but allow the area to stay pleasantly warm. Flowers of countless shapes and sizes popped up in patches throughout the gardens and added zest and feminine vivacity to an already picturesque landscape. The air was comfortably cool, and the faint, sweet scent of lotus buds and fresh-cut shrubbery rode the tender tendrils of wind that lapped at Riven's exposed flesh. The chirping songs of the birds flying free in the blue sky echoed for all to hear, and the chittering of skittering chipmunks and squirrels joined the symphony of nature. They were not the only fauna to prance and dance through the meadows; peacocks boasting feathery fans of brilliant hues, speckled does and their bambis, and playful pandas all shared a piece of the sanctuary.

Riven crossed few people, though she still bowed her cloaked head whenever someone happened to pass by. Most were simple villagers, but some donned signature brown robes that apprised the wanderer of the person's residency at the temple. She hoped she wouldn't have to wear one if they would accept her pleas for enlightenment.

She had reached the end of heaven, though which end- the start or the finish- she wasn't sure. Perhaps they would turn her away; she was a murderer, and a Noxian murderer at that. Riven had considered the possibility that they may attack her after learning her story. It wouldn't be the first time her race had raised Hell. Ionia was peaceful, but patience and kindness only lasted so far when the person at their door was of the same heritage of the war hounds that mercilessly slaughtered whole towns and cities in their quest for conquest.

Riven followed the steps that zigzagged upward, typical Ionian lanterns strung from wooden posts lining the way. Her steps were quick, her resolve strengthening as she ascended. They would let her in whether they liked it or not, she decided; she'd come too far to be turned away by bigoted fools.

The platinum-blonde encountered the first set of structures halfway up. Elegant buildings topped with black tiling and red, wooden walls looked very similar in appearance to the dojo the Elder had died in that inescapable night. However, these buildings were more ornamental and flashier, and all around felt more inviting. Banners flapped in the breeze, and monks and citizens alike strolled the grounds. The people were tranquil and happy, wearing traditional garb and tending to their duties.

Riven tensed under the judgmental eye of the villagers living and working, and she picked up the pace. She'd hoped that either she could slip by unnoticed, or that the people wouldn't care about the stranger. As she glanced up in morbid curiosity, she found disgust, disapproval, and horror in their almond-shaped eyes. They'd seen her skin tone and pegged her for a filthy Noxian immediately, and they were appalled that such a person dared to step foot in their sacred temple. Riven felt like an intruder, like she didn't deserve to be here. She was almost running by the time she'd managed to cross the outpost and make to the next flight of stairs.

' _Maybe this really wasn't such a good idea…_ ' she reconsidered. ' _No, don't think that. They don't know your story. They have no right to stand between you and redemption_ ,' she scolded herself.

Riven continued to pass through several more clusters, receiving the same, painful disdain and animosity. It hurt. It hurt a lot, but the ashen-haired woman bravely waded through the shit and the xenophobia she was so used to by now, and with a relieved sigh, she reached the summit of the summit.

All of the temples she'd passed had nothing on the main monastery. Grandiose and magnificent it stood, awe-inspiring architecture framing every nook and cranny. A single maple tree planted itself upon a large boulder, its thick roots wrapping around and around until it separated into thinner appendages. The roots could be seen spider-webbing their way across the dirt floor of a crystal-clear pond topped with lily pads and maple seeds swirling in an almost undetectable current. The water appeared to burst from nowhere at first.

' _Wait, is the water… coming from the tree?_ ' Riven pondered. On closer examination, Riven realized that the tree was, indeed, the spout for the bowl. Damp lines traced their way down the craggy surface of the boulder and into the flawless expanse of shimmering diamond. ' _Weird._ '

Innumerous intricate designs of various religious symbols hung from the branches of the tree, and Riven remembered the statues of the garden below. Putting two and two together, Riven realized that this was not a place for worship of a single faith.

The monastery itself was multi-tiered, and the fancy and abstract (to Riven, at least) markings and carvings obscuring the white-ish walls added a sense of sophistication and complexity to the layout of the otherwise simple structure. Zen gardens were abundant and constituted most of the ground with their mesmerizing patterns engrained into the sparkling sand. Here and there, groups of monks and visitors stood and conversed with one another, appearing friendly and affable.

However, when the woman entered the courtyard, all chatter ceased, and all eyes locked on the platinum-blonde at the top of the stairs. An unnerving silence seized the courtyard, the only sound being the rustle of the maple leaves in the wind. Hostile glares directed at the newcomer burned into the cloaked woman, the earlier benevolence completely absent. To their revulsion, the heartless creature made its way to the temple with slow, cautious strides.

Whispers of, "What is _she_ doing here?!" and "She's here to kill us all!" Riven's blood froze in her veins as she overheard a particularly large man taunt, "Noxian pig! Better run before I skin you alive, you spineless coward."

They hated her. They really, truly loathed her very existence. These peaceful people, these people who were supposed to represent balance in all things, hated her person simply because of her birthplace. Riven was beginning to see past the pretty façade they'd built themselves over the years; these people were just like any other like-minded group of individuals. They'd just criticized her personality before they'd had the chance to know who she really was because of some pre-conceived notion they'd drummed up from some past wrongdoing. It was sick, and an involuntary grimace took hold of her face as saw the "neutral" nation for what it really was. Despair welled up in her heart as she realized that she might have made a mistake in traveling to the island country.

Then, just as Riven had given up all hope, a very peculiar fellow stepped forth. The man was of average height, but his gait was still imposing and naturally demanded respect and attention. Riven knew the type; Noxus was brimming with men of the same formidable build and posture. However, the way this man communicated was gentler and much less threatening than the brutes of her homeland, and she couldn't help but stand taller when he walked nearer. He sported beige, baggy pants and sturdy, leather shoes. He wore no shirt, showing off an impressive physique with muscles bulging beneath punished skin. Red ribbon encircled bandaged ankles and wrists, and a very long ponytail entwined with the same wine-colored thread wrapped around his neck. Thick rope interlinked two large, golden rings that hung from red cloth from his waist.

His appearance was unusual as it was, but one last detail completed the bizarre spectacle. A scarlet rag wrapped snugly around both eyes. A lone piece of gold jewelry embedded with an azure gem floated in an ocean of vermillion upon his face. It was hypnotizing, and Riven could've sworn she saw her own reflection in the priceless gemstone.

"Hello, stranger. What brings you to Hirana Monastery?" the man asked in a voice collected, yet firm. There was no malice in his words or tone, only curiosity.

"I come for the man named Lee Sin," she informed the man. She hesitantly asked, "I was told I would find him here?"

He chuckled. The audience did not. "Why is it you require his presence?"

"Why else do people come here? I'm lost, and I need help finding my way back." Riven was becoming impatient. She was worried the crowd might actually attack her if she stayed too long.

A smirk, then, "Well, you have found him."

The platinum-blonde expressed suspicion at his statement with a weary step backward, expecting some sort of trick. "You're Lee Sin?"

"Is it so hard to believe?" he asked. Once again, there was no anger or resentment, just genuine interest.

"Is it so hard to believe that people have lied to me before?" Riven countered.

"Relax, friend. This is not a place of violence," the man had sensed the defensiveness in her response, and tried to ease the woman into dropping her guard. It didn't work.

"Your buddies here don't seem very happy to see someone like me here," she stated flatly.

"What is 'someone like you'?" Lee Sin asked. He knew the answer; everyone did, but he obviously wanted her to say it out loud.

"I'm Noxian. Can't imagine Ionians are pleased to see a Noxian tromping around your temples with a war going on," Riven replied.

He chuckled again. "These people will not hurt you," he said matter-of-factly.

It was Riven's turn to laugh. "Yeah, right," she snorted, "What makes you think they won't hurt me?"

"I won't let them." A shocked murmur broke out.

The conviction in his voice startled her; she got the feeling that he was telling the truth.

"…Why?" she prodded.

"You are not the enemy. If you were, we would not be here. These people," his blind gaze shifted to the crowd around them, "they do not yet realize this. In time, they will come to understand, but until then, we must show them why they are wrong."

The mumbling increased in volume, and the monk raised his hand. The group instantly silenced themselves. The power this man held over his cohorts was intriguing.

"I believe you mentioned 'finding the way'?" he queried.

Riven paused. It was never easy admitting her faults, or that she desperately needed help, but she'd do anything to atone for her sins. She owed the deceased at least that much. Finally, she replied with a simple, "Yes."

"Then you have found the right place, wanderer."

An indignant cry rose from the crowd. "You're gonna help her? She's Noxian! She's killed women and children!" Riven winced. Half of that was true, and the familiar misery wormed its way back into her heart. But the he added, "Prolly fucked 'em too, bloody Noxian…" and Riven didn't feel bad any more.

"That is enough!" the monk raised his voice, annoyance very clear in his body language and in his spoken word. Riven could guess that the perpetrator was a repeat offender. "I choose who I aid, not you. It would do you well to learn this fact, Yoshi, before I am forced to remind you physically. Again."

The man named Yoshi's hands covered his crotch. Riven chortled quietly.

The monk extended his hand before instructing, "Come. I will give you the guidance you need." With that, he spun and walked the other direction, clearly beckoning the ashen-haired woman to follow.

Follow she did, and after brushing past the still-prickly cluster of Ionians, she fell into positon at his side.

"Your name?" he asked, titling his head toward hers.

There was no point in refusing him this request. After all, he had been the only monk at the monastery to side with her. "Riven," she answered casually.

"Riven," he repeated to himself. "Are you hungry, Riven?"

"Very," was all she said.

"A woman of few words. I like you already," he smiled warmly.

She huffed light-heartedly. "Suppose so."

"Once you are fed, we shall begin your training."

"Training? What type of training?" she inquired.

His smile never left his face, "The type of training a warrior such as yourself should appreciate."

A white eyebrow shot upward, Riven mentally reminded herself that he was blind. There was no way he could see her. Or so she thought.

"I believe physical exercise is a wonderful way to cleanse the soul. I think you will agree with me." Then, to answer the unspoken question, "There are other ways to see, mind you. You will discover this and many other… techniques along the path to forgiveness."

Alarm flashed across her face, and he somehow saw it again.

They'd stopped, and he had turned to stare at her. The man was wise beyond his years, and it laced his words as he spoke, "You are scared and desperate. It permeates the air around you. You want to absolve yourself of sin, to come to terms with your past and truly move on but what you do not realize is that if you continue down this path, it will only bring you to ruin."

"What path?" Riven suddenly sounded very meek and vulnerable.

"I will show you, but first, you must promise me that you will let me. And you must promise me that you will act. A diagnosis is nothing without a treatment."

The woman sighed deeply. There was no doubt that it would not be an easy task, but what was nowadays? From this point, there was no turning back. She nodded, then said in a voice that was much too tired for someone of her age, "Alright. I promise."

"Good. The kitchen is this way. We begin as soon as you finish your meal."

' _It's finally time_ ,' she thought. As she closed her eyes to inhale, an image of Hana floated in the darkness. ' _Never again_ ,' she reassured herself. ' _Never again._ '


	8. Chapter 8- Fighting Dirty

**Holy Hell, I've broken 1,000 views! This is monumental, and I'm incredibly, indescribably grateful for those of you who've stuck it out till now! So after research, I decided Lee Sin's fighting style was a mix of Taekwondo because of his ultimate and Muay Thai because one of his skins is literally named** ** _Muay Thai Lee Sin_** **. The hand-to-hand combat will be as realistic/cool as I can make it, whereas the future swordplay segments will all be complete bullshit (she wields a sword wider than her waist, what else am I supposed to do?). As always, please, please,** ** _PLEASE_** **leave a comment for me so I can gage how the overall plot is sitting with you guys. Anyways, enjoy the latest chapter!**

 **9 Years Ago**

The hot, yellow light of the afternoon sun beat down upon two very fit figures dancing a dexterous dance of fists and feet. The harsh slap of flesh connecting solidly with flesh echoed throughout the open-aired dojo chalked to the brim with a wide variety of equipment and obstacles. A gauntlet of wooden warriors consisting of tall, wooden "dummies" with studded, occasionally clawed appendages that spun around the blocky forms on multiple levels occupied a large area near where the sparring partners now practiced. Arenas where _Kendo_ -style swordplay was fought with bamboo sticks sat adjacent to the motionless, oaken army, and past that was a series of beige, thin cloth mats where martial artists honed their skills. Encircling the training grounds was a tall wall composed of rough brick and mortar. The whole place was clean, well-kept, and cared for, and exuded a sense of Avant Garde in every polished floorboard, professionally-sheared banzai tree, and detailed painting depicting great warriors who trained in this very monastery from times past.

With a final, powerful strike to the woman's torso, Lee Sin's apprentice found herself splayed out on the padded floor of the outdoor arena for the umpteenth time that day. An almost undetectable grunt escaped her lips as her ass met wood once more, but just as soon as she'd fallen, she'd scrambled onto her feet ready to reengage the blind monk. Sin thought it an admirable trait; not many were as resilient as the bruised and battered platinum-blonde before him. Since the day they'd begun her long journey, she had never once accepted defeat. It was a good thing too- Lee Sin was not easy on Riven at all.

However, for a reason the monk could not surmise his pupil was still not giving him her all. Sure, she tried her best, but there had been many times when the monk's guard had born large gaps, yet she hadn't acted on them. At first, Sin had assumed she hadn't noticed them, but after a short time with her he realized that she had chosen not to attack. It was frustrating, and whenever he confronted her about this hesitation, she brushed him off. If she wasn't completely honest with him, he could not truly act as her savior.

Sin was ripped from his thoughts as Riven lunged at him in an open palm strike to his chest, trying to knock him off balance. The move was fast and powerful, and conveyed years of labored practice. Despite how easily he parried the blow, he could not help but feel impressed with her speed and agility. His apprentice had proven herself well versed in the art of unarmed combat, and even way back then she had been one of the dojo's best fighters. In months, she'd mastered what had taken his most gifted students years to learn, and since then had come a very long way from her first timid steps onto the temple grounds.

Riven reminded the blind monk of himself in this respect, and the excitement of battling a truly worthy foe in the near future threatened to overwhelm him; he had surpassed the monastery's most distinguished warrior long ago, and consequently he hadn't had a proper test of skill in years.

Unfortunately, she would never reach anywhere near her true potential if she continued to behave so mercifully.

A whistle of wind signified a foot traveling toward his lower leg, and he raised a hardened shin to absorb the assault, countering with a left cross to her cheek that sent her reeling.

Lee Sin could not technically see, despite his earlier cryptic reply. Instead, he used sound, smell, touch, even taste to visualize his surroundings. Of course, all were amplified by ancient magic and was therefore easier to discern a picture from the chaotic mess of sensory signals that assaulted him daily. Out of all of them, sound was his personal favorite: using an advanced method of echolocation, he could calculate where and when objects were in space and time, and with endless hours of practice he discovered he could hear and locate the vaguest whisper of wind whipping around a fist that violently displaced air in its path toward his head. It was an amazing discovery, one that changed his life and gave him a glimpse of hope of being the master martial artist he'd merely dreamed of being.

His preferred combat style was not of a single, uniform technique. It was a mix of many different styles across the Continent, a mix that he considered superior yet near impossible to learn, but the most prominent were those of Ionian Muay Thai and Demacian Taekwondo (Muay Thai because of its boxer-like approach Sin was forced to assume with his impairment, and Taekwondo simply because one's legs always pack a bigger punch than one's arms). Sin hadn't devised a name for it, partly due to the fact that the monk hadn't taught anyone else his technique. It wasn't really anyone's fault though; they simply lacked the mind set to correctly implement his teachings.

In contrast, his current student was leagues ahead of anyone the monk knew, save possibly a certain septoculared yellow friend, and thus the monk believed he would finally be able to pass on his knowledge to a worthy successor.

Once again, Riven failed to exploit a fault in Lee Sin's stance, and the martial artist was reminded how far she still had to go. It was time for a new lesson, one that she'd never forget.

Riven was currently on the defensive, her forearms guarding her lowered head while her feet were spread wide- too wide, Sin noticed; she would have to be notified later- with her left leg forward, exposing the inside of her left knee. All of this information was collected through soundwaves, and Sin decided her left leg would be the price she paid for her consistent mistake.

They were relatively far apart, four or five yards at the least, but distance was not a problem for Lee Sin, and in several graceful strides, he launched himself into the air with a clockwise spin, right leg extended in a mighty roundhouse with feigned intent on colliding with Riven's jaw. The ashen-haired woman twisted to the right to avoid the attack, but her error was recognized less than a tenth of a second later- her feet had stayed rooted to the floor, a blunder that would have devastating consequences in a real battle.

Riven was too busy focusing on Sin's right leg sailing past her head to notice his left foot jut out at the last second. This blow was not aimed at her head. With devastating power, the monk's left shin solidly connected with Riven's inner left kneecap, horribly bending the appendage in a way it was not meant to bend. The sickening crunch of bone accompanying a bloodcurdling, feminine scream of agony filled the arena, and the collapsed warrior desperately rolled away from her knee's offender.

Sin, in juxtaposition, landed lightly on his feet and reassumed his combat stance before relaxing, knowing his opponent was in no state to fight back.

"W-What the Hell?!" Riven managed to splutter through gritted teeth. She was furious.

Sin couldn't care less. "Why are you holding back?"

Riven clutched her broken leg, fingering the sensitive skin to try and determine its seriousness. Whatever conclusion she came to was not a pleasant one; maybe now she would finally listen to him.

"What the fuck are you talking about?!" she spat, crimson eyes glaring into bandages of the same color.

"You are holding back. Why are you holding back?" he repeated. After feeling the intense, unwavering gaze without answer he sighed before continuing, "In the few instances where I am knocked to the ground, you suddenly become docile. Moments before, I couldn't detect you, giving you a prime opportunity to strike. Yet, you did not. Why?"

"Wha-?" Riven finally understood what the blind monk was referring to. Sin could hear the grimace in her voice as she struggled to explain through her teeth, "I'm not gonna kick you while you're down. That's dirty, and I don't fight dirty." Sin was chuckling. "I'm _not_ gonna throw away what little honor I have left…"

Lee Sin was laughing now, a cheery, warm sound that would've brought a smile to Riven's face under any other circumstances. Instead, she remained out of the loop, unaware of how hilarious she sounded to the blind monk.

 _Of course_ that was the problem; he was kicking himself for not realizing it sooner.

"What's so funny?" she inquired, more curious than anything.

Sin regained control of his emotions almost instantly and replied, "I apologize, this is my wrongdoing."

"No shit," Riven muttered under her breath.

The monk ignored the comment, opting instead to address her personally to express the importance of his next words, "Riven, I believe your quest for ultimate good has blinded you to the reality of conflict."

Her face contorted into a puzzled, still aggravated expression. She was going to interject, probably to explain that she knew damn well the realities of conflict, but Sin interrupted her before she could make a fool of herself.

"No, let me finish. I know you are here for redemption, to atone for your mistakes- mistakes that you still have not told me what they are, mind you-, but just because you are willing to change does not mean the world will change with you, Riven." His tone wasn't condescending. He genuinely seemed concerned for her unintentional ignorance.

Riven obviously didn't care because she successfully cut him off, asking, "Oh for the love of God, _get to the point_." Her horrendously broken leg wasn't helping the growing exasperation in her voice and body language.

Sin bluntly stated, "There is no 'fighting dirty', Riven. There is only fighting to fight, and fighting to win. There is no honor in a fight."

The platinum-blonde appeared bewildered.

The monk continued, "I know of your oath, to only attack when your enemy has attacked." Riven didn't seem all that surprised, so Sin resumed, "Your oath is a commendable effort to do good, but it is flawed."

"Oh really? How so?" Riven's tongue was dripping in sarcasm, and it wasn't lighthearted.

"Your oath means the fight will never be on your terms, Riven. You have already put yourself at a disadvantage just by upholding your vow." The woman scoffed. "Riven, you already know that sometimes, in order to save a life, you must take one. What you haven't realized is that sometimes, you have to attack first. Sometimes, there is no time to react. Sometimes, you must do before you think, and what _I_ think is that you don't believe this. You think it is unjust to punish a person before they commit the crime, yes? You believe it is unfair, unjust even?"

Her silence was all the confirmation he needed. She was taken aback by his next words, "To answer your question: it is. It is very unfair. But what they are about to do is even more unfair, so we are forced to decide between two evils: kill an 'innocent' man, or cause the killing of an innocent man. I know it appears awful, but that is the price for peace."

Sin could tell the woman was entrance by his words. "Now, that is not to say we should seek bloodshed to solve our problems: killing is an act that can't be reversed. Death is the only absolute in this world, and we must be undivided in our position that our actions are of the lesser evil when we offer a soul for her to take."

We must also be sure that it is the enemy's blood that is spilled when the dust settles: otherwise, our struggles are all for naught. The only objective of a fight, the sole thing that actually matters, is that _we_ are the ones still standing. Therefore, we must pounce on every advantage like our life depends on it. In fact, it likely does."

Sin paused. It was a lot to take in, and Riven looked downright baffled. He let her mull it over in her head before he made his request, "Riven, if you are to continue our training, I need you to do one thing. I need you to promise me something. Promise me that you will truly give it your all. If I lay on the ground, you will kick me. If I do not know where you are, you will make the best of my impairment. Promise me from now on, you will strike me without restraint. Will you do this for me, Riven?"

She sat there, taking it all in. He could hear the frown on her face as her conflicting thoughts vied for dominance. She seemed to have forgotten about her mangled appendage, and the monk found himself eager for the day when she could perform such a feat on command.

After a long period void of anything but the chirping of birds and the rustling of the wind, she looked up and made a request of her own, "First, promise me the same. That you won't go easy on me." Riven winced as she hoisted her injured joint as an example before saying, "I know you have been."

The martial artist grinned, "I thought that was clear."

What little of a smile Riven could muster spread across her face as she conceded, "Then I promise. Now help me fix this."

"Of course," he said before kneeling at her side. He unwound the wrapping covering his knuckles and palms; this was a bad break, so it would need full skin-on-skin contact. He grasped the joint firmly and channeled a soothing stream of healing from his conscience to hers, and the area around the break glowed sky blue as the bones rearranged themselves.

Riven wiggled uncomfortably as the spell ran its course. Lee Sin could sympathize with her; the magic that cured her ailment removed pain from the equation, but the feeling of bones shifting in muscle was still alien and felt unlike anything the monk could describe. After a few brief moments, Riven sighed in relief, flexing her leg gingerly before fully stretching.

The blind monk was still crouched beside her as he assured her. "That should do it. You should be fine, just be-"

Riven had decided to test his promise's durability by smashing her left knee in a bone-crunching bash to his face before rolling away, effectively ending their conversation. He was taken off-guard, and he reeled backward. He caught himself, then noticed her already dropped into a stance, this time with proper spacing between the feet.

He could hear mischief in her tone as she taunted, "Don't look at me, I'm just doing what I promised." However, there was an air of uncertainty surrounding her: was this what he wanted?

He stood tall and straight, smirking sadistically in a way that stated yes, this is exactly what he wanted. Two hands, one bandaged and one bare, were placed on either side of his disfigured snout. Neither flinched as _Crack!_ he set his own nose in one smooth motion before adopting a combat pose himself. A single drop of dark blood trailed from his nose, but he didn't bother to wipe it away.

"I'm glad we have come to a… mutual understanding," he said slyly. Then, bellowing a war cry fit for the fiercest of warriors, he struck as hard and fast as he could with his right fist, more determined than ever to turn his righteous disciple into a hardened hero.


	9. Chapter 9- A Hero is Born

**Surprise! Don't get used to these consecutive updates, I just really wanted to try my hand at a fight scene. Please leave a comment and all that jazz. Enjoy!**

 **7 Years Ago**

A tanned, white-haired woman easily swatted the fist to the right with a left open palm, slamming their free closed fist into the opponent's ribs. The aggressor grunted from the force of the counterattack, and another pained _Urgh!_ escaped his lips as the woman followed up with a strike with the left knee to the same area. Bones crunched lightly: cracked, but not broken entirely. That area was a key point for the defender to impair, as the torso in front of and beneath the armpit was crucial to throwing a proper punch. Injuring the area would put the man's dominant arm out of commission, and she decided to focus the area when she got the chance.

Riven wrapped her hands around the nape of the man's neck in an attempt to catch him in a clinch, but he ducked from her grasp and sent a sturdy foot into her abdomen. It connected, but the woman moved with the strike's momentum, somersaulting backwards and deftly rolling back to her feet, prepared for another onslaught.

Lee Sin didn't attack straight away, instead taking the time to instruct, "Good, but could be better. A throat strike would have been the wiser choice. The clinch would have been more effective."

' _Duly noted_ ,' Riven thought, but what she said was a taunt, "I'd say I did pretty good either way."

His tone was filled with faux dismissal, "I suppose so. For an _amateur_." A devious grin crossed both of their battered faces as they exchanged the usual, playful ridicules.

Sin's degrading jibe was far from true. In recent years, Riven had excelled at an alarming rate, improving both her physical and mental stamina past a point she didn't even think existed. Her strength was unmatched, her agility, reflexes, and sensory perception were increased to unimaginable extents. She was as fast and powerful alone now as she used to be when the wind guided her: almost quicker than the average blink of an eye. Her strikes never missed, her demeanor always calm, collected, and focused sharply on her objective. In other words she was superhuman, far more so than she used to be.

Riven was momentarily thrown into the past as she recalled how her older self stacked up to her present form. Old Riven was weak, feeble and foolish. Old Riven believed the world was out to get her, that friends and family would only tear her down when the inescapable kiss of death came to claim them one by one. Old Riven thought she could save them all.

New Riven was not so naïve. New Riven was resolute, tenacious, and badass. New Riven felt no pain.

An airy chuckle emanated from her nostrils as she remembered her mentor's wisdom. " _Pain is mental_ ," Lee Sin had explained to a scowling Riven with a snapped collarbone, " _pain is all in your head. It is not tangible, you cannot taste pain. You cannot smell it, touch it, hear it, or see it. You can feel it, but what is feeling, truly? Synapses firing. A simple spark up your spinal cord. A message from your body to your brain, a message you can choose to ignore. It is not easy_ ," he'd conceded, placing a glowing hand on her clavicle, " _but if it was easy, you would not need me to explain how to do it now, would you?_ " He'd chuckled before continuing, " _However, pain is not bad. Pain is very similar to fear; both tell us when something is amiss. Pain tells us when the enemy is successful. Pain and fear are information, and information is always stronger than fists_." He'd helped her to her feet just then, and continued, " _They can debilitate, but that is entirely up to you_." She'd felt his gaze through the cloth, sizing her up, deciding whether she could handle the next step before he'd asked, " _Are you ready to make that choice, Riven? It is a difficult and arduous process. You will feel excruciating, near-unbearable pain-_."

" _I'm ready_ ," she'd replied without hesitation.

He'd looked doubtful, a first for the monk, but he resigned himself when he'd seen the sheer intensity in her eyes. " _Alright. We begin now._ "

New Riven realized the importance of intimacy. Throughout her stay at the monastery, she'd become familiar with the staff, the monks, and even the regular visitors from villages near and far. They all gave her wide berth at first. She was Noxian, after all, and even now, 3 years after she first set foot in the mountaintop valley, the war still raged on. It was bloodier than ever, with both sides sustaining massive casualties. They said the piles of bodies were so high that in some places, they obscured the sun from dawn to late morning… It was a chilling thought, and the inhabitants of the cliff-side temple blamed her personally for a long time. But when they saw her for what she was, after lending her aid in the annual harvests, rituals, and ceremonies, after proving that the Noxian blood that ran through bulging veins was not synonymous with violence, they accepted her into their cozy society of mountain monks and farmers. They were like family to her now, and she would gladly surrender her own life to save theirs if the ever situation arose. She was elated to have a best friend; not only did she have someone to spill her secrets to, the adjective best inferred that she had multiple acquaintances she could trust.

And spill her secrets she did, to the blind monk who was so good at listening. She'd confessed Hana's murder and the old man's passing at her hands. He did not attack her on sight as she though he would; instead he'd hugged her. " _We all make mistakes, Riven. Some greater than others, but no one is perfect. What matters is how you deal with them. Do you move on, accept that you are a flawed person, and live your life in dedication of righting your wrongs? Or do you wallow in grief and give in to self-pity?_ " She'd revealed her skeleton in her closet and rather than push her away, he'd brought her in closer. Friendship was a wonderful thing, she'd decided.

New Riven knew what she was doing.

New Riven was also currently giving the blind monk the toughest fight of his life.

Riven snapped out of her reverie when she noticed a foot flying toward her head. She didn't dodge, as she discovered through experience when Sin was twirling midair he was in his most vulnerable state. Kicks or any move where the leg is incorporated into a strike were very high-risk high-reward. If the blow found its target, whatever it hit would likely fracture, and could even stop a fight altogether. If the blow missed or was caught, the offender was wide open for counter attack. In this case, where both competitors possessed enough might to splinter the solid oaken warriors standing guard beside the mats, it was a fatal mistake. Riven guessed that Sin's reasoning behind such a risky maneuver revolved around her previous stupor. He had been wrong, and Riven took the smallest amount of time possible to formulate a finisher before she acted.

He was spinning clockwise with right leg extended. Judging from the position of his left leg, he was going to attempt the same move he'd used on her the first time he'd broken her kneecap. She didn't have the core strength to effectively stop his momentum- she doubted anyone in the world could, it was so destructively obliterating-, but her pure body weight could.

She kneeled, dipping her head into her knees trying to ground herself as much as possible, crossing her arms over her scalp in an X. His foot sailed above her, but his left shin collided with her body. The impact was earth-shattering, but the ploy worked. His single leg couldn't even budge her rock-like stance, and he tumbled over her. He recovered and quickly stood- right into Riven's right hook that dislocated his jaw.

With the beginning of the end initiated, she commenced her brutal assault.

He flung a wild left jab at her throat, trying to prevent the combo, but Riven simply parried it with her right forearm.

Her open left palm strike hit his left shoulder, turning his whole body, giving Riven unrequited access to his front torso.

A right fist traumatized his solar plexus.

A left fist broke his cracked ribs under his arm.

He was regaining his balance, so Riven struck the outside of his right knee with a left shin.

A streamlined thrust sailed into his esophagus and knocked the wind from him.

Everything was setup perfectly, all Riven had to do was finish what she started. A scream of defiance rose from within her as she clenched her right hand into a tightly-balled fist, cocked it behind her head, then, with all of the strength and power left in her limbs, she sent the knuckled appendage crashing into his face in a cataclysmic right cross.

The monks head snapped back, his whole frame going limp, and slowly, he fell straight backwards, a dull thud emitting from the springy mat below them.

That was that. Riven had won. Ragged gasps and groans filled the empty arena; the battle had raged for half an hour at least, and both had almost over-exerted themselves. Riven fell onto her butt, this time on her own accord.

Then, snickering. Lee Sin was chuckling, but the action gradually crescendoed until he was laughing loudly.

He sat up with a pained grumble, and on his face was pride. "Thanks for that. I had begun to forget what that feels like."

Riven was beaming. She ached, and her many lacerations she'd received reminded her how of easily the outcome could've been very different.

"Well then, what do you say to a celebratory bowl of noodles?" he asked.

Riven rolled her eyes, then replied sarcastically, "What is it with you guys and noodles? I swear, you guys would _breathe_ noodles if you had the ability."

"Do you not enjoy a good cup of noodles?"

"Hell no, I love noodles." She shrugged at Sin's knowing smile, then added, "You all didn't really give me a chance."

The duo nodded, then stood with great effort. Exhausted and hungry, they walked silently, side-by-side to the gates, each practically slobbering in anticipation of savory ramen.

oooooo

Riven stood at the uneven precipice, taking shelter in the shade of a lone maple tree. The platinum-blonde's vantage point offered a holistic view of the resplendent summit beneath her, and she took a deep whiff of delicious, mountain air. Enticing and invigorating as always, the atmosphere calmed her. She was not troubled per se, but she was unsure. She had fulfilled her purpose here. What would she do now that her conscience was clear? Where would she go? She pondered all of these and more above the gardens where so many beings and creatures lived. Her eyelids closed and she hummed a tune she'd picked up from a festival not long ago. The real piece was wonderful and heartwarming, plucking the heartstrings as delicately as the musician had masterfully manipulated the cords of the Shamisen. Riven had no idea that only three strings could rend open her soul as totally as it did, and she was disappointed how her personal version seemed a travesty of the original harmony.

Crisp, scarlet irises reappeared as Riven recognized footsteps behind her. The person halted when they'd reached her flank, and remained quiet. No words were shared at first, both enjoying the glory of the vista.

The voice of Lee Sin prompted, "Where will you go?" Riven turned only her head to look at him. He still faced the valley, explaining, "I know you do not plan to stay. To be honest, I'm surprised you are still here."

"So am I."

"I ask again: where will you go?"

A pause. The woman returned her head to its original position. "I don't know."

More peaceful silence. "Might I make a suggestion?"

"Sure."

"You haven't lifted your sword in years."

"No, I haven't. Had no reason to. Why do you ask?"

He spoke, "Your fists and feet are the most skilled they have ever been. I imagine you are eager to do the same for your blade."

Riven was interested. "Do you know someone who will help me with that?"

"Yes. In fact, he is a close friend." His arm raised and Riven followed the gesture with her eyes. "South of this mountain, there is a dojo where a seven-eyed man in yellow resides. He is the best swordsman I know by far, and as such, he only teaches to those he deems teachable." He turned to "look" at her now, "I think you fit the bill. His name is a secret known only to him and his few trusted friends."

Riven asked curiously, "Then what do I call him?"

"He prefers 'Master Yi.'"

Riven nodded, deciding her course of action. "Alright. I guess that's where I'm headed next." She turned to him and wore the most compassionate smile she could muster as she said, "Thank you so much. I'm grateful you took me under your wing. You've been a great friend and ally. All of you have."

He smiled back, then grabbed both of her shoulders then said, "There is no need, Riven. You have begun to show the people here the error of their ways, and I must thank you for that." He embraced her tightly. "Now go out and explore the world. And remember: if you return you will be treated like family. You can consider this home." He released her, said his final goodbyes, and then left her with her thoughts.

Now alone, Riven inhaled deeply. She scanned where Sin had pointed. She nodded once, then exhaled.

The next chapter of her adventure had just begun.


	10. Chapter 10- The Wuju Bladesman

**Hello once again! I'm noticing I've become romantically apocalyptic when it comes to setting, but I don't know what to think of it. If I'm interpreting the graphs right, there are about 50 of you guys that are consistently reading every new chapter I put out, and to me that is insane! I really, really appreciate those of you that have been here since chapter one, and on top of that, anyone who has read my story up to this point. If my loosely-guided plan is anywhere near what actually happens, this chapter may or may not be a little less than halfway through. As always, I'd love some feedback from you guys. Thanks for everything!**

 **7 Years Ago**

The crunch of ash and wooden splinters beneath leather soles reverberated through burnt alleyways of a deserted village. Demolished houses stood miserably in what was once an organized arrangement with rows upon columns upon rows. Now, with streets overflowing with torched debris and horribly disfigured corpses, a logical layout for the tall, incinerated structures could not be ascertained. Windows that were once colorful mosaics melted from their frames from intense heat pooled into hardened, glass sheets and scorch marks marred the landscape through and through. Nothing had been left untouched; everything, be it clay pots holding decayed flowers, collapsed trader stands displaying all sorts of handmade trinkets of cloth and twigs, or blackened, gnarly remains of trees, had been somehow affected by whatever terrifying siege had seized the village.

Riven knew exactly what had befallen the poor community. The distinct smell of putrefying flesh. The charred carcasses, twisted and mangled beyond recognition. The deathly quiet atmosphere. The unidentifiable, crusty oceans of obsidian, crackly tar.

The unfortunate village had fallen victim to one of the many chemical attacks from the Noxian-Ionian war. The biological barrage had occurred long ago, judging from the consistency of the puddles of goo. Riven had seen it before. It was a common tactic of Noxus; if a certain settlement was impeding the advancement of the front line, a small squad of soldiers would break ranks and make a mad dash toward the troublemaker. The battalion would then raze their target to the ground, leaving no survivors in their wake, and retreat back to the main fighting force to join their brothers- and sisters-in-arms in slaughtering the opposition. The sudden strike was effective in more ways than one: many families of Ionian warriors were often caught in the crossfire, and since the Noxian invaders took no prisoners, the brutality devastated morale.

What Riven couldn't figure out was why _this_ village in particular had suffered its grisly fate. As the platinum-blonde walked through the carnage, she saw no war machines, weapons factories, or anything that Noxus typically used to justify mass murder.

' _Why would Sin send me here? I don't see any survivors. Was he mistaken?_ ' Riven questioned her old master's instructions.

On and on she trekked through backstreets littered with wreckage and singed skeletons. Everything was dead. Gardens were long gone, stalks of corn, buds of wheat, and rice fields lifelessly surrendering to their lack of proper care. Even infamously resilient weeds were absent. There wasn't a single living being in the village.

Riven rounded the corner and renounced her previous conclusion. There, in the middle of a suspiciously clear cobblestone road sat a motionless figure.

Hands that were curled into themselves connected to forearms casually resting on crossed legs. His- its bulk and posture suggested it was male- head was bowed, obscuring his face, and he was muttering something in a calm, peaceful tone. He was lightly armored, only sporting slim gauntlets and shin and shoulder guards, but the pieces he did wear were ornately crafted and gleamed brightly. Highlights the same color of the afternoon sun high above them skirted the edges of the elaborate armor, and a complex, almost serpentine design wrapped around a pitch-black robe that clung tightly to his lean-yet-muscular body. It was an unusual sight in the middle of ruination; the stark colors contrasted the dreary background majestically. But what captivated Riven's interest were the two objects on either side of the meditating man.

To his left, a long, sleek helmet lay in the road, a steel, dual-pronged hook smoothly protruding from the rear of the head. Covering the face was a most unique spectacle: a group of 7 chrome-lined optics bunched together in a symmetrical pattern glowed a neon yellow. The septoculared device seemed to stare directly at her, analyzing her every move, every blink, every breath she took. Riven shivered.

To his right, floating midair in a strange, almost greenish light hovered the most magnificent weapon Riven had ever beheld. It was a two-handed longsword of average length, but that was where the mediocrity stopped. The sparkling golden hilt was flawless and graceful in from. Perfect yellow strands of thick fiber wove their way around an elliptical handle, while a pommel with three sharp, semicircular blades placed regularly around the central ball garnished the bottom of the sword. The cross guard in juxtaposition was simple, resembling a pair of featherless wings that separated the blade from the handle. And what a blade it was. Whatever material it was made of created its own luminescence, and the spectacular brilliance of the pure white glow it emanated was mesmerizing. Two rings halfway down the almost-heavenly saber jingled mirthfully despite the somber surroundings.

Riven readied herself for a fight and wearily revealed herself. No sooner had Riven had stepped out of the shadows than the man looked up. A goatee that reached the bottom of his ribcage hung from a narrow face. Calculating, magenta eyes searched her stance. He stood, studying the woman approaching him.

"Greetings," his voice was deep and firm, and was void for the most part of an Ionian accent, "what brings you here, stranger?"

Riven was hesitant at first. "I was sent by-," for some reason, Riven didn't want to divulge that information, "someone who said a 'Master Yi' could help me brush up on my swordsmanship."

"You have come to the right place."

Without warning or weapon the man she assumed was Master Yi lunged at her with his right fist. She'd read the move before he'd committed, so it didn't surprise her. His initial strike was an attempt to hit her throat and stun her, and she decided to counter with the same move.

Riven swatted his fist away from her body with the back of her left hand, delivering the same strike he'd attempted to use on her. Unlike him, however, she was successful. The gauntlet covering her hand made the move difficult, but far from impossible. Riven figured he was lucky to have simply staggered away; she had more than plenty power to crush his esophagus like a paper tube, but she was curious as to why he had attacked her, and so she had elected to let the fool live.

Riven slowly closed the gap, walking at a leisurely pace before she entered within striking distance. She wasn't thrilled to fight anyone other than her master, so she opted to end the battle as quickly as she could.

Her previously crimson eyes transformed into an even sheet of vibrant emerald, and a green aura surrounded her being as she charged her Ki. Her loose garments flapped in the invisible cyclone whirling around her, and jade-colored lightening erupted in tiny bursts all over her skin.

The air whipping through her hair and the crackling of the immense power brewing within her filled the area where they stood, creating a deafening ruckus.

All noise hushed for a single second as defiant, dominant eyes locked onto accepting purple ones. The quiet before the storm.

Then, Riven punched the man square in the sternum. There was no avoiding the attack; it was too fast and too strong to parry. An ear-shattering _BOOM!_ echoed off of beige walls as her fist connected solidly with his chest. Sparks leapt from the contact point, and the man was thrown backward off of his feet.

He impressively stuck the landing, feet scraping over the rough surface of the road as he slid to a halt. He was kneeling and clutching his ribcage, but he managed to stand, albeit with huge difficulty.

Riven released the pent-up energy and prepared for a counter attack. Instead, he clasped both hands together, a thin spider web of pale magic enveloping his whole body. A few seconds passed.

A grin, then a chuckle. "That is what I thought. You are Riven, correct?"

"Are you Master Yi?" Riven was still on edge.

"Lee Sin sent you, yes?" He'd either completely ignored her question or he hadn't heard her.

"…That's correct."

He nodded and said, "I apologize for the rude introduction. I had to make sure you were who I thought you were."

"What?" Riven was confused. Who else would she be?

"Look around. You may not have noticed, but the people of this village are not exactly on friendly terms with…with…" He looked at her in a silent plea for understanding.

Riven knew what he meant. "With my kind?"

"Well…yes." He sounded relieved that she'd picked up on the hint.

"You said you've had contact with Lee Sin? How?"

He chuckled again. "Lee Sin cannot see, yes? Just as in sight, there is more than one way to listen."

Riven supposed she could accept that. "I ask again, are you Master Yi?"

He contemplated momentarily before he replied thoughtfully, "You could say so."

The platinum-blonde was exasperated now, "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"The fact that you are asking me tells me Sin did not share with you his name." Again, Riven was very confused. He chuckled once more and explained, "You did not think Lee Sin was his real name did you?"

The shock on Riven's face must have been all he needed to know. "Ah, well, I wouldn't worry if I were you. Even _I_ do not know his real name."

"W-What are you-," the platinum-blonde couldn't finish her sentence.

"Names are powerful, do you not agree?" he pondered enigmatically to a perplexed Riven. "Names inspire hope. Names instill fear. Names can end skirmishes, battles, even wars."

Riven had no idea where he was going with this. Yi noticed and cut to the chase. "No one fears a simple farm boy, a nobody who works the fields. They do not quake in their boots in fear. Now, when the name Lee Sin arises, people listen. They think of the man that can topple armies with just his fists. They think of the man that can bring the lost back from the abyss. His friends view him a savior. His enemies, a threat to be taken very seriously. So as to 'What am I saying,' I am saying Lee Sin is not Lee Sin, just as I am not Master Yi."

Riven was struggling to understand; it was a lot of information to absorb. "Then who is really Lee Sin?"

"A man from centuries ago. All that is left of him is his name, but as I have told you, names are a great asset. The real Lee Sin took in an apprentice to teach his life's work because what he learned from his years on Runeterra was too important to be forgotten, so he left a legacy in the guise of his name. That apprentice became the master, mentored an apprentice of his own, and that apprentice mentored his own apprentice and so on and so forth until we arrive at the present day."

"Weird," was all Riven could say.

"What is weird is that no one has noticed there has been a Lee Sin of the Hirana Monastery for hundreds of years now."

Riven recalled their earlier conversation and the jigsaw pieces clicked together. "The same is true for you, isn't it? You're not the original Master Yi?"

He laughed, a disarming sound filled with genuine gaiety, and a sound Riven found she liked. "No, and if my intuition is not failing me, I doubt I will be the last. Besides, what kind of name is ' _Master Yi_ '? I certainly did not pick it, that is for sure!"

Riven shook her head. ' _Learn new things every day, I guess._ ' Her pride was mildly wounded at the thought that Sin did not see her a fit replacement, but then she remembered how young he was.

"You mentioned something about swordsmanship, yes?" Yi questioned. He glanced at his weapon and helmet wordlessly requesting permission to retrieve his gear. The platinum-blonde was tentative, but eventually determined he would probably not assault her a second time.

She shifted out of his path, responding with, "That's correct."

He swiftly glided past her to reunite himself with his goggles and sword. Yi kneeled on one knee, facing the opposite direction. Taking the headpiece in his hands, he examined each individual lense for any blemishes, apparently finding one and hastily wiping whatever flaw he'd discovered with his gloved thumb. He placed the article on his head, fitting it snugly before twisting some dial near his ear. The goggles emitted a high-pitched, electronic _twinnnng!_ Yi stood, extending his left hand to his saber, and the apparatus obeyed the command and deposited itself effortlessly into the palm of his hand. Yi held no scabbard because he didn't need one; he simply placed the weapon at his hip and the complicated hextech machinery utilized magical magnets to suspend the sword in place. He turned his head to look over his shoulder at the ashen-haired woman behind him.

"Then follow, Riven, and I will show you the way of _Wuju_."

Riven's heart skipped a beat. ' _Wait, he knows Wuju?!_ ' Much like her _Wind Technique_ , the art of _Wuju_ was considered one of the most practical martial arts ever to exist. It was also thought to have died out many generations before hers. Knowing a prime opportunity to learn when she saw one, Riven trotted to catch up to the master.

They walked silently for a long time, following a maze of side roads and trails. But still, Riven could not find anything that would warrant the massacre they were ambling through.

"Why did Noxus strike here? I don't see anything that's worth the risk of bombing this village."

"Did I tell you names can be dangerous to the owner as well?"

"No, you didn't."

"Hmm." He wasn't as cheerful as he was before. "When the dreadful fires of war first blazed across the shores of Ionia, I was part of the resistance sent to stop the enemy from gaining ground. I was good. One could say I was too good. During those first few weeks of the invasion, I slayed many foes, so many that stories of my battles reached your High Command-."

"I am _not_ one of them. Not anymore, at least," Riven interrupted.

"Right. I became so famous and so feared among the Noxian military that I became priority one within days. Through torture and other common tactics of warring armies the… oh, what were they called? ...Ah yes, the 'Crimson Elite'. They were…well…elite, and once they knew where I slept, they did not hesitate to level the village, this village, to try and eliminate me."

Riven wasn't usually the one to crack jokes, especially not in such an inappropriate time as now, but she wanted to bring that unwavering optimism back into his step. "Did it work?"

Yi turned to look at her, and she became worried she'd crossed a line. Then, a grin. A light chuckle. Finally, full-blown laughter, and he stopped to contain himself.

Riven smiled. She didn't think it was _that_ funny, but whatever gets the job done.

He reassumed his merry attitude, now standing just a little bit taller. "I appreciate your sense of humor. No, no it did not work." They resumed walking, and Yi wistfully resumed his story. "For the longest time, I blamed all of Noxus. Somehow, even those who had no say in the destruction of my people were involved. All in all, I was your stereotypical racist grandfather, if you can believe it."

Honestly, Riven really couldn't imagine the man beside her as being anything other than some variation of jubilant and chirpy. He didn't seem the type to act as vengeance's blade, a mere shell of a man dead-set on racking up a body count, but she listened intently nonetheless.

"But then something happened. I encountered yet another cliché fit for the ancient scriptures." It was Riven's turn to chuckle. "I met someone who said something that changed my perspective of how the world works."

He finished talking, and the woman took it as a cue to ask, "What did they say?"

Master Yi stopped in his tracks. "I will teach you what they told me."

Riven huffed, annoyed at being duped into the obvious cliffhanger.

"We have arrived."

The platinum-blonde turned and was greeted with an unexpectedly charming view. A gravel path wound its way beneath pink cherry blossoms and ended at the courtyard of a large temple. Multiple similar buildings circled around a fountain not unlike the one that sat at the Hirana Monastery. Fresh grass covered the ground, and birdsong broke through the quiet, stagnant air. Flowers and other decorative plants scattered themselves in patterns that spread across large distances. A towering wrought-iron fence circumnavigated the estate.

"I thought you said everything was destroyed? This looks like it was built yesterday-," Riven knew the answer to her question before she finished asking.

"That is because it was, for all intents and purposes." As the duo approached the gate, the transparent doors to the temple grounds gradually swung open on their own with a metallic creak. The mood inside the fence was tranquil and soothing, and Riven found herself smiling involuntarily.

"Are you hungry or in need of rest?" Yi queried.

"No I'm fine. Thank you for the offer," the ashen-haired woman replied.

"Do you object to beginning at this moment?"

Riven's hand flew to the hilt of her blade, expecting him to assault her then and there. His bemused expression gave way to a chuckle as he realized how she'd interpreted his question.

"No, not like that. I promise I will not pull anything like that again for both of our sakes."

The swordswoman let her hand fall to her side, easing her mind out of the trance of battle. "I'm ready to start whenever you see fit."

He nodded, then turned and gestured for her to follow him into one of the dojos surrounding the fountain. The room they'd just entered was large and spacious. There were no support columns other than the wooden pillars bordering the padded arena at the center of the room. Katanas, spears, and other weapons of the trade were displayed in all of their glory on multiple oaken weapon stands in little alcoves aside from the main foyer.

Master Yi "unsheathed" his saber and planted himself on the mat, instructing, "Now, we begin. Attack me."

The command took Riven off-guard. From what experience she had, this was highly unorthodox. She was also worried what would happen if she was successful in breaking through his guard; she was superhumanly strong after all.

He noticed her reluctance with an amused smile; he obviously knew something that she didn't. "I will manage. I must know where you need improvement, and I cannot truly know where to start unless you show me. So. Show me."

Riven sighed, "Alright, but you asked for this." She unholsterd the fragment of a sword to which Yi made no comment.

"I will try to remember that. Now, attack!"

Riven hefted the blade, coiled her spine, and swung as hard as she could.

Ooooo

 **Think of the sound the goggles make when you activate them in Splinter Cell for Yi's cybernetic peepers. Also, I know I straight up ripped off the Dread Pirate Roberts importance of names scene from The Princess Bride, but I thought it too badass and true to not include.**


	11. Chapter 11- The Secret Unveiled

**Hello again! I don't really have any comments beside the usual "You guys are awesome and I couldn't do it without you" spiel, so without further-a-do, enjoy! Oh, also, leave a comment! Thanks!**

 **6 Years Ago**

The shrine's gardens were not just gardens; they were massive graveyards that covered the landscape, holding what must have been hundreds of corpses. There were no tombstones, for Yi thought a cold, indifferent slab of stone was a mockery of a representation for the life of a feeling, empathetic human being; instead, a single, enchanted seed was placed within the rotting palms of the deceased. The flower would bloom overnight, the roots reaching deep into the soul and grounding their feelings and desires, giving them an outlet to express the emotions they would never have again. Each flower was unique, as the type and color were chosen by the spirits of the lost; some were spotted roses, others were plaid sunflowers, and occasionally their life force was so strong that a tree would blossom. Their varying hues and unusual shapes and sizes created an odd symphony that conveyed the lives and experiences of the people below, and Riven found herself agreeing with her sensei- a simple graveyard had nothing on the raw passion of the fantastic flora covering the clearing.

However, such a spectacle could only come to fruition with hard work, and Riven was learning this now. Sparkling beads of sweat trailed down her forehead as she sank the spade further into the hole she was digging. It was relatively shallow, just deep enough cover the body with a foot or two of soil, and was appropriately person-shaped. Yi was beside her committed to the same rhythmic motions. Dirt flung into the air and landed on the pile next to the hole, and with a final heave of earth, she determined the grave to be ready and clambered out of the cavity.

She walked to the cart positioned a few feet away and raised the bandana around her neck. Handling carcasses was an extremely unsanitary endeavor, and both she and Yi wore gloves, long sleeve shirts, and cloth rags over their faces despite the scorching afternoon sun.

Riven looked over the last couple of corpses collected from the village and decided on the smaller pair of feet on the right. Gently, the ashen-haired woman pulled the person by the ankles. It moved easier than she'd anticipated, and she discovered why when she held the corpse in her arms. It was a little boy, face gaunt, eyes eaten away by maggots and flesh crackly from chemical burns. He was far from the first child she'd ever buried- they'd been doing this for just over a year now- but that didn't make it any easier.

The platinum-blonde turned and carried the boy to his hole. She gingerly laid him to rest, tenderly shifting his hands to clasp his heart. The woman produced a single seed that looked like any other and placed the seed in his tiny fingers. She whispered a prayer to a God she didn't believe in, but the sentiment was all that mattered.

They were committing this act of charity for the single ideal Yi had instilled in his apprentice: respect. To Yi, the only requirement in anyone's paradigm was to respect all forms of life, whether they were of a pure heart or a wicked one.

' _Respect is what the world is built upon,_ ' he'd told her as they'd lugged the wooden wagon to load their limp cargo. ' _Children use it to realize they do not know everything, parents use it to know that they are not always right, foreign countries utilize its power to create treaties and compromises. It is what separates the good from the evil; the good are able to understand and empathize out of respect for their fellow people, whereas evil cannot distinguish what is the appropriate and acceptable response because they do not respect the worth of life. It is imperative that we respect everyone, Riven, even our enemies. Even if they are the most twisted, most foul thing to walk the surface of Runeterra, we must understand where they are coming from and respect their being, for if we cannot respect ALL life, we are not truly good._ '

' _So it's kind of like honor?_ ' Riven had asked.

' _No,_ ' Yi's stern reply hadn't missed a heartbeat. ' _Respect is nothing like honor. Honor corrupts. Honor forces a child into exile because he conversed with a child of an enemy tribe. Honor inspires duels to the death between two figures who would never think of clashing otherwise. Honor forces a person to conform to the standards of the high class lest they be executed for treason. Honor shames a family's whole namesake simply because one member performed some act that did not suite society. Honor manipulates your perception from that of right and wrong to that of which is the 'honorable' thing to do. And honorable, Riven, can mean anything._ ' His last words reminded Riven of her birthplace, Noxus. Those who were weak were shunned and left to die. Those who were strong and willing often found themselves in positions of power. She supposed that that system was its own sick form of honor. ' _Honor is dangerous. Be wary of those who call themselves honorable._ ' Yi had finished.

' _You must hate Demacians_ ,' Riven had chortled.

He had smiled as well, stating, ' _No, I do not hate the Demacians. In fact, I think the liveliest people I have ever known are Demacian. I just do not care for their societal norms. However, I respect them, nonetheless._ '

Microscopic veins in the seed flashed once, then stilled. Riven rose and began the process of carefully refilling the hole. Once the deed was done, she sat in the grass and watched the clouds float lazily from one end of the vast, blue sky to the other while she waited for her mentor to finish.

The platinum-blonde heard a content sigh precede Yi's voice as he said, "We are making progress." She looked at him and he looked at her, and he continued, "Well, how about a training session to end the day?"

ooooo

Riven let out a huff of frustration as her trusty Runic Blade was expertly whipped from her grasp by the flat edge of glowing steel and twirled through the air before landing softly on the cushioned mat 20 feet away. She would have dived for her weapon, but a white, hot saber stopped itself inches from her throat.

7 yellow orbs stared back at her as she reluctantly raised her hands above her arms in an ashamed surrender. The sword at her neck returned to its "sheath", and the googles flipped upwards to reveal purple eyes deep in thought. They stood silently for moment, Riven awkwardly shifting under her instructor's contemplative gaze. She tried to walk around her musing master, but his hand shot upward, instructing her to halt her movement.

"You have lost again," he stated abruptly.

"That's old news," Riven retorted, annoyed at what she thought was a jab at her combat prowess.

"Why?" he asked.

"Huh?" Riven was confused. "Because you're better than me?" she took a shot in the dark. If the sigh accompanied by the shake of his armored head was anything to go by, she'd missed horribly.

"Beside that. What mistake are you consistently making?" Moments later, he added, "There is a correct answer."

"I haven't the foggiest idea, Yi." She was clearly exasperated.

"You are doing it now, if that helps," he hinted.

Riven put her hands on her hips and looked upward, as if she could see the thoughts racing through her mind.

' _I'm doing it now? What does that mean? Why won't he just-?_ ' and then Riven knew. It was so deceptively simple, and it was something she found herself doing more often of late.

She regained eye contact with her sensei, and despite her putting all of her effort into adopting a neutral expression, he saw right through the bluff.

"You know what you are doing, don't you? Go on; say it." When Riven hesitated, Yi persuaded, "The first step to correcting a fault is to admit it."

With a resigned sigh, Riven sheepishly confessed, "I'm overthinking things, aren't I? A 'Paralysis of Analysis' situation, right?"

"Good!" Yi exclaimed with an enthusiastic smile, and Riven suddenly felt guilty at her unwillingness to open up; it was clear he was trying his best to help her. ' _Yi would make a good parent_ ,' she realized.

"Excellent!" he repeated. His tone became more serious as he warned, "Yes, Riven, that is exactly right." He paused, looking her up and down once more, then regained eye contact. Yi nodded without breaking his intense gaze, then uttered words that lifted Riven's spirits.

"I think you are ready to learn the secret of _Wuju_ ," Yi informed his pupil.

Riven could barely contain her excitement, and goosebumps rose on her tanned flesh. The past year had been dreadfully boring for the ashen-haired exile. Yi hadn't taught her any fancy maneuvers or advanced tactics she assumed she would learn under his wing; instead they'd started as if she knew nothing. Granted, she could now perform the basic strikes and strategies with a bag over her head- this was something she knew from experience-, but she wanted more, and for a long time she was afraid she would leave disappointed. However, her friend, Lee Sin, with whom she trusted her life, had said that this Master Yi would help her achieve greatness, and for that reason alone she'd refused to give up. And now it looked as if her patience would pay off.

"Follow me," Yi commanded, then pointed to her sword and said, "Bring your weapon. You will need it."

Riven followed her master out of the dojo and along the path to the main temple and entered the impressive architecture. The main room was huge and smelled of the scented candles that melted upon the cold base of the statue in the center of the room. The marble behemoth had clearly been carved by a master of the trade, and features so small and insignificant that only a fellow sculptor could truly appreciate the skill and tireless toil that must have been dumped into it covered the artistic marvel. The sculpture was that of a long, serpentine dragon about 20 feet tall, though if the thing were real and breathing it would be much larger. It seemed to burst from the floor, and it was hunched over the entrance, as if guarding the sacred grounds from the inhabitant's enemies. Each scales was so detailed that they almost looked real, and the talons of the two, small arms were curved like scythes. Two motionless, yet fiery eyes glared at the intruders from either side of a huge snout, and a gaping maw flashed dozens of sharp, carnivorous teeth.

Riven stopped, and Yi walked until he stood directly under the monster's mouth. He pivoted, looked her in her eyes, and asked, " _Wuju_ is almost extinct. Only I and one other person alive have mastered it. Tell me, what have you heard of this dying art?"

"I've heard very little, nothing more than rumors, but they say the key is complete neutrality. Prejudice holds you back, or something like that." Riven snorted, "To me that seems like common sense more than anything."

"You are correct in both ways; _Wuju_ requires peace of mind, but then again, what does not?" Yi chuckled. "You have been free of bias for quite some time now, yes?"

Yi stood straighter, if that was possible, and in a grave tone said, "Very few possess the ability to master the martial art of _Wuju_. Those that do are remembered as the greatest fighters in history. My observations of you over the past year have lead me to conclude that you are capable. I am willing to accept you as my apprentice."

"Wait, then what the Hell have we been doing for the past year? I thought you were teaching me _Wuju_!" Riven adamantly demanded answers.

Master Yi offered an amused smile. "No, those were the trials. I was testing your mettle, and I am happy to say I am most pleased with the results. You have a better grasp on the fundamentals of combat than most masters. You are a prodigy, Riven."

Riven didn't know whether she should be furious or ecstatic. On one hand, she had wasted a year under the false impression that the man talking to her was teaching her a martial art fit for only the most elite of fighters. On the other hand, he'd just formally agreed to teach her a martial art fit for only the most elite of fighters.

"…Fine. But if you pull another stunt like that, I'm gone." He seemed satisfied with her answer.

He nodded. "We begin immediately." Riven made to return to the dojo, but Yi halted her movements with a quizzical, "Where are you going?"

Riven looked flustered. "You said we begin immediately, I thought? The dojo?" He shook his head.

"You have no need of the dojo for now."

"What? Why not?"

"You have all of the technical skills at your disposal. And not just that; you have a complete understanding of the battlefield. Physically, you are perfect."

Riven cocked her head off to one side.

"I am going to tell you the secret to _Wuju_. You must promise not to tell anyone. Do you understand?" Yi was sternly looking at his pupil.

Her eyes went wide. "Just like that?" she asked incredulously.

"Just like that," he replied.

The platinum-blonde nodded. "Ok. Yes. I understand."

"Good." A dramatic pause. Then, "There is no secret."

"What?"

"There is no secret," he repeated.

"No, I heard the words, they just don't make sense. What do you mean there is no secret?" Riven started to feel like she was being conned.

He grinned. "It means just that. There is no secret to _Wuju_." She still looked puzzled. "I know, it is strange, but it is true. Anyone could do it if they were in the right frame of mind."

"I thought you said only certain people are capable of mastering _Wuju_?" Riven asked with no small amount of suspicion.

"There is a trick, but it is no secret," he answered mysteriously.

"…Well? Are you going to tell me or am I wasting my time?"

Yi stepped aside and gestured for her to come closer. "I would rather show you. Please, kneel."

Riven was tired of these games, but she still stepped forward. Before she could sit, he placed a hand on her shoulder and requested, "Your weapon, Riven. It is enchanted, yes?"

"Yes. At least, it was."

"You still have much to learn. Magic is the only force on Runeterra that is stronger than Time. The only way to remove an enchantment or a curse is with another enchantment or curse. Have you altered the properties your blade since its fracture?" He asked, his voice urgent.

"Not as far as I know of. Magic isn't my thing."

"It should be."

Riven asked, "What?" for the umpteenth time that day.

"That first day we met, when I attacked you and you retaliated with some sort of blast? That was a release of your Inner Ki, wasn't it?"

"How did you know?"

"Have you ever wondered why only you are capable of such a feat?"

Riven pondered that question almost daily. She'd yet to see anyone else perform something similar, and it annoyed her to no end that she was still clueless as to how it worked. "Yes, in fact. I have."

"Just as I thought," he muttered before speaking to her, "That is a very rare talent. One-in-a-million. Actually, it is more like one-in-a-billion." He elaborated when he realized he still hadn't explained what it was. "You have the ability to project your own life-force outside of your being. Think of it as conjuring your willpower. And if I'm correct," he looked at what was left of her sword, "your sword works on the same basic premise."

This was interesting. "So what does that mean?"

"Place your sword on the pedestal and kneel. We will soon find out," Yi requested.

Riven was eager to get started, so she followed his orders without question. She delicately placed her saber before the dragon as if it were made of fragile glass, then sat on her feet with her open palms resting on her knees.

"Close your eyes."

She closed her eyes.

"You must do everything I say when I say it. Can you do this?"

The ashen-haired woman replied without hesitation, "Yes."

"Now, clear your mind." She nodded. "That is not good enough. You must clear it of _all_ thoughts, Riven."

She inhaled deeply.

"If you do it correctly- trust me, you will know- let go of everything. Let your body move on its own volition. Surrender your mind to your body, _completely_. It is crucial that you do this." His tone matched his words in urgency. "I will be right here, waiting for you."

Riven exhaled. ' _Clear my mind of everything_ ,' she thought.

 _Inhale._

Riven released her thoughts to the place where thoughts go when they're not needed. She could almost see them now; a jumble of emotions and expressions that cluttered her mind's pathways. She slowly began sifting through the junk, tucking everything away into its own private corner.

 _Exhale._

Her sense of touch was the first to go. She found she could no longer feel the floor beneath her. Her clothes seemed to fade away into some abyss, but she couldn't feel the soothing air passing over her skin.

 _Inhale._

She could no longer smell anything. The candles' scent was absent, along with the faint smell of body odor and the herbs intended to mask it.

 _Exhale._

She could no longer hear anything. The rustle of shrubbery in the wind was gone, and her own breathing was missing from the atmosphere.

 _Inhale._

Taste followed suite. The saltiness of the soup she'd previously slurped was now nonexistent, and the air was bland.

 _Exhale._

She couldn't see. Her eyelids were closed, but she couldn't see them anymore. It wasn't black, but it wasn't white. It wasn't gray either. It was just, nothing.

 _Inhale_

…She was descending into an abyss…

 _Exhale_

A spark. She felt something pull at her. Riven resisted at first, but eventually gave in.

 _Inhale_

A flicker. She was travelling somewhere, but she didn't know where.

 _Exhale_

A flame. She was gradually accelerating.

 _Inhale_

A roaring fire.

 _Exhale_

…Nothing…

 _Inhale_

It all came rushing back in an instant. Her senses were heightened past anything she'd ever experienced before.

She could feel every groove, every nail, every indent in the wooden boards beneath her. Her clothes painfully chaffed against her skin; she could feel each individual thread rub against her complexion and it burned with a passion. The wind was so cold, and it seemed to permeate her flesh as she felt the currents of air whip across the wrinkles and ridges of her epidermis.

The odor of the lit candle threatened to overwhelm her, but it was not the only fragrance she detected. The sweet, sugary scent of the flowers entered the picture, and she discovered that she could separate each flower from another by its smell alone. Still there was something else… and then she recognized it. It was so diluted it was almost unnoticeable, but Riven could perceive the coppery tang of blood in the distance; a pack of wolves had just slaughtered an unfortunate doe, and unsettling amounts of the crimson liquid spilled onto the grass.

She could hear their howls of triumph from here. Her inhale swept through her eardrums and almost wrapped around her brain. A distinct _thump-thump, thump-thump_ which Riven identified as a heartbeat resounded from her left, and she knew it was her mentor's. But there was one sound that Riven couldn't discern. The _flit-flit-flit_ of some unknown origin became her center of focus. ' _No, can't be…_ ' It was the flapping of butterfly wings in the garden. Her hairs stood on end as she began to fully understand the extent of senses.

A savory and extremely salty substance invaded her taste buds, and after a moment of making sense of all of the different flavors, she found the culprit; a piece of an herb soaked in spices and seasoning had wedged itself firmly between her molars. This was one of the few pleasurable revelations, so she let it be.

A spider web of veins and arteries on a pinkish background appeared before her pupils, and after a few shocked moments she realized _she was seeing through her eyelids_. She could barely make out the silhouette of the dragon in front of her, but there was something else in front of that. Whatever it was, it was wide and long, and it seemed to be suspended in midair. It looked somehow familiar…

Riven sensed a difference. It was similar to how she felt when she was powered up, but at the same time, it was not. She felt the raw energy coursing through her body feeding her power and an electrifying potential for destruction. She was stronger, faster, and sharper than ever before, and she felt it coat her skin in waves. This was nothing new.

However, she sensed something she'd never possessed before: total and absolute control over her abilities. Her eyes were still closed, but she no longer felt the crackling, unstable lightning that used explode all over her; instead it was evenly spread, smooth, and reacted to her every command. It was no longer a dark, brooding force to be reckoned with. It was quite the opposite: it filled her with muscles with vigor, overloaded her soul with vivacity, and infused her vitality into her being. It was this sense of supremacy and authority over her spirit that amplified this fire to unexplored heights.

She was suddenly curious, and experimentally ordered the atmosphere to bend to her will. A light rustle of her hair confirmed her suspicions: she had even greater influence over the wind, and the soft caress of the air around her made her unexplainably giddy.

"Open your eyes," Yi's voice interrupted her epiphany and it took a moment to register what he was saying.

Riven opened her eyes and gasped. Hovering three feet in front of her face was her fully-intact Runic Windblade. Individual shards were joined together along seams glowing with an intense green light, the many runes along the length illuminated as well. It shimmered in waves, and Riven spied her own reflection. Her eyes radiated the same emerald brilliance, and when she reached out to reunite with her sword, she noticed she was casting her own viridescent vibrancy. The luminescence was no longer a sickly, venomous green, but a dynamic, exuberant jade filled with life and unearthly essence.

A woosh of air. A _zing_ of steel. Riven reacted before she knew what was happening and caught the blade headed toward her jugular with her own.

She stared into mischievous eyes and gave him a bewildered look. ' _What just happened?_ '

He laughed heartily. "Now we are getting somewhere!" He kicked at her abdomen, but she'd spun away long before his foot had ever had a chance of connecting.

Riven was perplexed, and Yi shed light on her situation. "You have let your body rule your mind." The glowing woman mildly panicked at that, and Yi reassured, "No, no, this is good! This is very good, Riven! Most do not reach this level until their final year of study, yet you have achieved total control within minutes!"

She relaxed as much as someone who was abnormally green that had just been surprise-attacked by their teacher could, and Yi continued.

"You have discovered the 'secret' to _Wuju_ , Riven. Do you know why _Wuju_ is the superior art of swordplay?"

Riven shook her head.

" _Wuju_ does not revolve around memorized moves or fancy techniques as do other styles. Instead, _Wuju_ focuses on instinct and reflex. You must act before you think. It is the embodiment of the creative mind; it is always changing, always formulating new ways to defeat the enemy. There are no weaknesses, nothing that 'counters' _Wuju_ because _there is nothing to counter_."

Riven understood now; it was genius really. Now that she recalled their past battles, his stratagems had always seemed arbitrary to her. Some days he would light into her like no other, and in others he would never initiate. Sometimes he bounced and teleported and generally gave her PTSD, whereas in others he stay rooted to his position.

"What now?" Riven asked.

His grin widened ever more as he said, "Now we train."

"I thought you said we wouldn't need the dojo anymore?"

"That is correct, we will not." And with that shit-eating grin, he blinked away, leaving Riven to simultaneously play the most entertaining and deadliest game of hide-and-seek she would ever play.


	12. Chapter 12- Riven the Bladeswoman

**So it's super late where I live right now and I haven't even reread it yet, but I wanted to get this chapter out as soon as possible for you guys. Remember: MOST of the character background is canon, not all of it. About here is where we start to see major deviations from the site's bios. A huge heads up for TwistedPlasma's kind words! Leave a comment to let me know how I'm doing!**

 **5 Years Ago**

The single emblem scoring both sides of the shattered blade pulsed lightly in the dimness of the quiet room, splashing waves of green luminescence upon the paper-thin walls that almost seemed to breathe with the woman clutching the sword. A single calloused, skilled hand tightly grasped the handle of the fragment close to a warm torso decorated with beige wrappings and a purple corset. She was calm, despite the circumstances, and her footsteps gave no indication of her presence. Carefully she padded forward, left leg always leading, blade always at the ready. Her chest did appear to rise or fall to the naked eye, and the eerie absence of sound proved a testament to her extraordinary control of her own body. She did breathe, for she wasn't dead, but she did so at a rate so slow and noiselessly that the mesh of cloth on cloth was louder than her measured exhales.

Riven's stealthy behavior was purposeful, of course; less noise from her own activity allowed her to detect her steel-plated prey without having to swim through her own clamor. She could hear her own heartbeat, but the one she wanted remained inaudible for now. Her eyes frisked every object and shape outlined in the shadows of the temple. The sun's position signaled that the time was around midday, but the thick sheets of papyrus choked out almost all rays of sunshine. Still, the blonde warrior strode onward to find her target, undeterred by the obstruction of sight. Riven didn't need to see to fight, Yi had made damn sure of that.

She closed her eyes and focused.

Besides the whoosh of wind through the leafy trees outside the walls, there was no sound. No matter how hard she strained, she couldn't hear the creak of silvery metal against metal or the tinny, constant humming of Yi's goggles, but she did not quit placing and tracking the reverberations of the creaking rafters.

She could not sense any vibrations in the floorboards, and the steady current of wind gently lapping at her flesh indicated that Yi had not moved since she'd entered. It was a unique trick Riven learned to implement during her time with the yellow swordsman; she could sense the displacement of air that objects in motion left behind if she concentrated. Unfortunately, Yi had learned of her ability long ago and found ways to counter it: a falling candle possessed the same signature as and the lithe assassin that threw the waxy cylinder, and thus distraction became Yi's greatest asset.

However, no matter how many different spices and fragrances he bathed himself in, he still emitted a distinct smell: cinnamon, with undertones of the polish he used frequently in the upkeep of his iconic armor. In the void of nothingness the platinum-blonde waded in now, she could identify the faintest snippets of his scent. She wearily followed the trail at a snail's pace, reaching out as far as her senses would let the woman.

The aroma increased in potency as she closed in on the origin, and Riven's speed grew ever slower.

And then, the odor began to disappear. At first, Riven thought she'd let herself be duped, but she realized the truth almost immediately. She had been correct in her observations: Yi was certainly here somewhere. Only, he was not level with his hunter, and because there was no basement, that only left-.

A sharp tug yanked her gut upward, and an urgent voice much like her own screamed, ' _MOVE!_ ' She obeyed her instinct instantly, dropping to her knees and rolling forward just as a white saber gracefully stabbed the floorboard where she'd stood milliseconds before.

She turned and parried his jab to her heart she knew was coming, and reflexively blocked his redouble in the form of a diagonal strike to her left shoulder. With his sword trapped between them, he tried to plant his foot into her stomach to shove her backwards, but as his leg lifted, Riven counterattacked with a heel strike to his ankle. He landed softly on his side and rolled away to dodge Riven's vertical strike, successfully creating distance from his pupil.

Riven knew he would make a break for the exit as soon as possible as Yi was disadvantaged in this enclosed space. Riven wielded what amounted to a longer dagger, which wasn't perfect for combat indoors but the short sword was much more appropriate and effective than her master's katana-long-sword hybrid. She surmised that the only reason Yi had attacked in here was to surprise her and end the battle as quick as it began. Unfortunately for the master, his ploy hadn't worked, and now he was trapped in a small area with an unsuitable weapon fighting an enemy that was _far_ from incompetent with a weapon.

The door was behind Riven and down a long hallway; as long as she could keep him in a confined area, a win was almost guaranteed. But her sensei, she'd discovered, was a slippery son-of-a-bitch.

Instead of assaulting him outright, Riven decided to let him come to her. After a few seconds of methodical inspection, he lashed out with a cut to her left thigh, which she parried, followed by a jab to her right shoulder, which she did not.

The woman did not stagger or flinch in pain, instead using his infinitesimally small period of cooldown to step into his guard, simultaneously slashing at his exposed belly from her right. He could do nothing but watch as the enchanted blade carved a shallow ravine into his stomach, and soon after drips of red blood stained his uniform. He didn't seem to mind. Riven attempted a stab that would travel beneath his ribcage to pierce his vitals, but with a bright flash he was gone. She what happened next.

Without turning, she instinctively curled her arm over her head so her sword crossed her back and angled her weapon straight downward to protect her rear. As if on cue, Yi reappeared and in the same instant that he teleported back into existence, he struck horizontally. The blow was impressively deflected, and the woman pirouetted away to avoid his second attack. She rushed forward to grab him and prevent him from moving but the damage was done: Yi had a clear path to the exit and he bolted.

Riven was hot on his heels, vaulting over tables and crashing through doors until the crisp odor of flowers flooded her nostrils.

That familiar, grating sound of a weapon shearing through the atmosphere. Her intense gaze shot to the source: Yi was ambushing her from above once again. He'd waited for her to pass through the entrance to the temple to launch another aerial attack.

Riven did not avoid the assault this time, opting to perform quite the opposite. Where she stood now, his blade would easily pass through her in a downward arc. She took a single step forward, and when he saw her shift in position, he desperately tried to throw his weight to anywhere except his destined location.

He landed on her, but she did not collapse. Incredible strength and form prevented her from tumbling to the ground, her left, unyielding shoulder staying put as his own momentum drove her shoulder into his solar plexus. A gasping wheeze escaped his lips as all of the wind was knocked from his lungs from the impact. He tried to awkwardly slide off, but Riven wasn't done with him yet, and, wrapping her sword-free arm around the bend in his knees, she whipped his body into the cobbled path beneath them with crushing force.

Regardless of the torment his body had just endured, he proved resilient, and when the strike targeting his sternum approached his chest, he wiggled just far enough at the last possible moment to render the strike a miss. At least, it would have, if Riven hadn't noticed the change halfway through and readjusted the strike's line to impale the top-left quadrant of his torso.

To Riven it was a miss, and she ripped the blade from his chest to strike again. As crimson spattered all over the craggy stone walkway Riven was reminded how gruesome there training had become in the past months.

Her senses returned to her and she was about to stab downward again, but he kicked at her knee and rolled away. The platinum-blonde didn't lose her balance, but she realized the act's real purpose was to gain a foothold. She'd just caught 200+ pounds of steel and muscled meat mid-air, so she wasn't budging any time soon.

Yi rose to stand solidly, inspecting his injury. Several seconds passed. Then, in a haze of not-quite-yellow and not-quite-green, his body gradually ascended. Riven did not attack, for she knew that he was near invincible during his meditation.

His feet scuffed the earth as he landed, fixing a stare of seven eyes on his student. The bladesman lowered into a stance, and Riven prepared herself for a _true_ test of skill.

Silently they stood, astutely examining the others' posture, waiting for their counterpart to make a move. Wind chimes tinkled a melodious tune and the cheeping of chicks and nestlings intermingled to create nature's harmony. Dreamcatchers with their rich, evocative feathers and patterned, infinite spirals of coarse netting playfully frolicked in the clear, blue sky, multicolored flowers swaying to whatever rhythm the flying snares set. Riven's throbbing heart relaxed, and with new vigor, assumed a pose.

They both lunged, weapons clashing with a loud _clang!_ Riven's Runic Windblade met Highlander, and with a synchronized retreat, the struggle began. Back and forth their blades argued their cause, and the conversation of cursed steel on blessed crystal thundered throughout the clearing. Where Master Yi attacked, Riven parried and riposted, and where Riven struck, Master Yi evaded and countered. Their fluid tango carried them everywhere across the estate. One second they dramatically danced upon rooftops, and in the next they were seamlessly gliding over the glass surface of the fountain, both deftly executing cartwheels and backflips and every style of parkour imaginable to throw off their opponent.

Blood flowed from wounds inflicted by saber and katana alike, but neither could feel their gashes and scratches in the fiery, adrenaline-fueled heat of combat. Master Yi was slower and weaker than his apprentice, but he boasted an unmatched link between body and mind. Without walls or a ceiling to worry about, he kept Riven at bay with his weapon's greater reach and his personal, clever tactics. Riven lacked the years of experience Yi held in his shiny gauntlets, but the platinum-blonde was quicker and so powerful her strikes and interruptions could rarely be blocked _or_ parried. It was an excellent advantage to have, but Yi wasn't letting her anywhere near where it would be useful. Riven remained patient, another virtue she held with pride, and got a word in edgewise here and there when her master was occupied with simply standing upright.

The animated quarrel of blades had come full circle to rest at the area in front of the well of water in which the temple houses converged. Yi ducked under and away from a diagonal strike from above and reciprocated with a low slash to Riven's knee. She saw it of the corner of her vision, pirouetted with her remaining momentum, then reversed direction to cartwheel over her sensei's singing blade. It passed inches above (below?) the top of her cranium, and time seemed to temporarily halt before violently resuming. She elegantly landed behind her master, but did not attack; she had a plan, but first it needed a set up.

Yi provided it when he whipped around, blade swinging almost lazily on a horizontal plane. He recognized his mistake, but it was too late. Riven dashed into his torso, blade extended to statically halt his wild strike, and her arm shuddered as she caught his saber. She took another step inward, placing a foot behind his forward ankle, and used her free leg to launch her knee squarely into his kidney. He tried to catch himself, but he tripped over her foot and only worsened his condition.

Yi was successfully staggered: it was time. Riven spun, gathering potential, and pivoted around her left leg. Her master reclaimed a sort of purchase of the ground, but it wasn't solid enough to do anything with but attempt to intercept with a pitifully-weak block. This was good, exactly what Riven needed.

A quarter turn from connecting, Riven supercharged her Runic Windblade. Her veins glowed a vibrant, electric emerald as pure energy spider webbed from her heart, wrapping around her arms and seizing her shattered sword. The rune's luminosity was amplified tenfold, and the lost fragments of her blade spawned from nowhere before aggressively claiming their rightful place beside their brethren.

Fully formed and fully functional, her saber savagely obliterated the frail guard Yi had hastily constructed. It sliced deep into his chest, blood spraying from the point of contact, and Highlander was ferociously wrenched from his death-grip.

Yi spluttered a sudden exhale as Riven rammed her shoulder into his sternum, knocking him flat on his ass. Habitually, he strained to raise himself to continue the fight, but the razor-sharp edge pressed firmly against his chest convinced him otherwise.

He looked up to meet eyes the color of blood staring triumphantly back him.

A deep, ragged breath. Then, "Well done…well done…"

Riven lowered her weapon, then dismissed the past. The Runic Windblade dimmed, then the brilliant, green stitches gave way. Dark shards of what was fell, bounced with a hollow ping once, then individually exploded into a shower of sparks.

She extended her hand, and Yi gratefully accepted. He grunted, wobbled slightly, but held his posture. Their heavy, haggard breathing filled the air, but Riven was grinning stupidly. It soon turned to disappointment.

"So that's it?" she asked, fearful of the answer. She was supposed to be a homeless wanderer, but she'd grown accustomed to the tranquility of the temple.

He chuckled, red seeping from his lips. "This is a milestone, but your training is not yet complete." She nodded, but in a way that suggested she didn't fully understand, so he continued. "Now, we perfect your technique."

' _Good_ ,' she thought. She wasn't brimming with a yearning to move on and explore as she was usually.

Yi sighed, placed one palm to another, and became encompassed with a supernatural aura. His gash stitched itself closed before her eyes, followed by the nicks and tears his robe had received amidst their scuffle.

"That will be all for today," he informed her, "You performed excellently."

Riven nodded again, crippling exhaustion overwhelming her tired bones. The battle had taken every drop of focus and concentration she could bear, thus it had left her both mentally and physically overworked. Riven limped away to the shrine; she, too, could heal her injuries through the art of Zen, but she possessed a very basic knowledge on the subject. The spiritual elements residing in the stone behemoth in the main building would lend her the strength and energy she required.

However, no amount of meditation could cure the grumbling in the pit of her stomach. Thankfully, she had Yi's cooking to tend to that issue.

ooooo

Master Yi did not start off as one of the greatest chefs of Riven's life. This wasn't his fault though; everyone burned along with the village, and Yi had never properly learned to cook gourmet dishes before his people were annihilated. He'd had few visitors since then, which meant fewer chances to improve his chops in the kitchen.

Then along came a warrior looking to refine their trade, and Yi sprung at the chance to better his skill with a blade to cut greens and veggies, as he had already mastered the blade for meat. For those first few experimental months, Riven was the unlucky Guinee pig, sampling his poor excuse for "soba" and commenting on the quality; very low. But through trial and error, genuine commitment, and a very, _very_ patient Riven, Yi became almost as good a cook as he was a swordsman.

Currently, they were enjoying an unknown (to Riven) fish grilled and lightly seasoned, for the meat itself was plenty flavorful without additional spices. Several layers of chewy-yet-crunchy seaweed separated the salty seafood from its mattress of fluffy white rice. Dumplings that constituted of spring onions, leeks, garlic, and more seafood ("of a different species" Riven had been informed) completed the meal, and both warriors enthusiastically chowed on their savory dinners.

The ashen-haired woman speared the last remaining dumpling on her plate and chomped. She looked at her master, at his braided goatee, at his equally-long ponytail that hung like a rope from the rear of his skull, and finally at his complex, violet irises that had seen so much. In fact, Riven came to the revelation that he'd probably suffered more than she ever would: she'd never developed feelings beyond a friendly competitiveness with the men that died that day, and there was no-one in Noxus that missed her, but Yi's whole village was destroyed. His friends, his family, and everyone in between were likely dead and rotting in the streets. And then Riven began to wonder if her sensei had ever fallen in love. Whoever they were would have died along with the rest. Riven couldn't begin to imagine the pain Yi had endured through these lonely years.

"Yes?" he asked. Riven realized that she was staring, but as she was about to apologize, another question formed in her mind, a question revolving around the topic they'd discussed during their first contact. The more she mulled it over, the greater her curiosity grew, and she found she couldn't contain herself.

"What happened to the old Master Yi?" she blurted.

"What do you mean?"

"When we first met, you rambled about names and legacies and the sort. Among them, you claimed to not be the first Master Yi. What happened to the one before you? Did he pass away during the attacks as well?" she asked. The amused twinkle in his eyes lowered with his gaze.

In an unexpectedly bitter voice, he spat, "I wish. It would be the best for all of us." He looked back up at Riven's shocked expression, and his tone softened as he explained, "Sorry. How do they say it? 'Reopening old wounds' or something akin to this, yes?"

"It's ok. You don't have to answer if you don't want to, I was just curious," she said.

"No," It was meek at first, but confidence overtook his tone as he reassured, "No, I must do this. If I do not, I will never move on." A brief inhale. "The one who came before was also a 'Master Yi'. Technically, he was 'Grandmaster Yi' but I never cared for technicalities. To me he was a second father. He was caring, and kind, and righteous, and more so than the others he was courageous. He was the best warrior I ever knew." He chuckled here, and said, "You remind me of him very much. You would get along well."

Riven blushed slightly at the compliment.

"I was away at the front lines when the flying machines of death approached from the south, but he was not. He defended the village so bravely, but in the end, there is not much one can do to protect themselves from the falling sky."

Yi's voice cracked with sorrow, and Riven felt for the poor man.

Then, the bitterness returned. "Even when the heavens rained fire upon him, he did not yield." He looked back up at her and fixed her with a glare not meant for her. "Did you know that not all who succumb to the deadly ooze die immediately?"

Riven nodded. It was perhaps the worst possible aspect of hex-tech biochemical warfare: the basic components were still largely a mystery, and it often lead to horrible abominations. "We called them 'corpse walkers'," she explained, "because that's what they are: walking corpses. Apparently, among other despicable venoms and curses, a powerful neurotoxin shares space with other acids and the like. If the acid didn't melt your insides out, the neurotoxins will twist your mind beyond repair, leaving you brain-dead or worse. Eventually, you killed by starvation, dehydration, or you rot away as you stand: whichever comes first." Riven shook her head in disgust. "Gruesome way to die."

He sadly bowed his head. "I am glad one of us knew. I did not, so you can imagine my surprise when I returned to find my master still standing." His face contorted into confusion as he explained, "However, his symptoms do not quite match the list you described."

Riven leaned in, interested in this new twist. "Really? What was he like?"

Yi looked upward as he mused. "You make it sound as if these 'corpse walkers' only live to breathe."

"Yeah, that's right. Their minds are so fucked they only have room for eating, drinking, and-," she nodded at Yi, "as you said, breathing. Just people that didn't quite die when they were supposed to."

Yi vigorously shook his head, stating, "No, the Grandmaster was not like this at all. He could talk, and run, and fight…" Yi trailed off, absently running his hand over his collarbone as if he was reliving a memory, "…He could definitely fight. And he was terribly mutated; I think if I remember correctly, his goggle had become fused to his flesh."

"Hmmmm." Riven had heard of this before.

"Do you know what has befallen my master?" Yi asked eagerly.

Riven was deep in thought, her chin resting on clasped hands. "Sounds like your former mentor is a 'plague demon'." He looked lost, so she continued, "Hex-tech deals with magic, right? I may not know much about magic, but I do know it's volatile as all Hell, and very susceptible to corruption. When you have sick minds like the creators of the chemical, it's not all that difficult to believe that the source material is bastardized in the process. Evil magic brings curses, and with curses you deal with the supernatural. Thus, the 'demons' part of 'plague demon'." But there was uncertainty in her voice, and he heard it load and clear.

"You sound skeptical."

She crossed her arms and locked gazes with the man. "They don't exist," she stated bluntly. Yi looked crestfallen and confused. "At least, they're not supposed to."

"I know what I saw, and what I saw is what I told you. Why do these, these 'plague demons' not exist?"

"Well," she sighed, "a plague demon is supposed to be a survivor of a direct onslaught, the recipient of a chemical bath if you will."

"And?" He looked expectant.

"That's the problem. No one survives direct contact with 'the ooze' as you call it. It can't happen because there would be no corpse left to possess." She held up her marred forearm and said, "I got _extremely_ lucky that I didn't lose my mind and start feasting on my buddies." Riven shuddered at the thought.

"If he wasn't a plague demon, what was he?"

"I'm not completely disregarding the option," she said, going on to explain, "You know how I commanded one of the initial invasion forces on Ionia? Well, we weren't the first per se. Another squad of men, these were _big_ men mind you, razed a path for us. A few villages, nothing more. One of our bombers had split off to assist them. It was supposed to be a standard chemical attack followed by a cleanout of any one left." Riven leaned in, adopting a very serious tone bordering on conspiracy. "When we got there, there was no one left. All of our mean were dead, armor ripped to shreds and the edible portions marauded. The blimp sent to escort them was found half a mile to the east, a hole torn straight through the side. At first, we thought it was an Ionian counter attack, but then we noticed that there was literally _no one left_. There wasn't a single survivor. We brushed it off at first, assumed the Ionian pigs were this evil. But then, we start to get word that other units are dropping off the map. Whole squadrons are being completely wiped out, and no one can figure out why. It got so bad that night that they had to send in the _Crimson Elite_ to end it. They must have succeeded, because no one mysteriously disappeared again." Riven reclined again. "Rumor spread fast that the thing they killed looked just like you described it: disfigured beyond recognition and raving mad."

Yi was nodding, and then he looked at her with a grave face and informed her, "Not everyone was affected by the gas. The village elder, a very wise man, ordered everyone to convene at the state house. When I arrived, I found the mangled bodies ripped to pieces. The Grandmaster stood in the center of the pile." Yi shuddered. "It is a sight I will never forget."

They sat there quietly for a while before Riven stood and informed Yi, "The food was delicious. I don't know why you won't tell me what the fish is, but it was fantastic. The seaweed was just touch over salted, but other than that I have no complaints."

Yi smiled and thanked her for her two cents, wishing her a good night.

As Riven lay in bed that night, staring at the moon's silhouette, she recounted the events of that night with disdain, disgust, and most recently, morbid fascination.

' _Do plague demons really exist? Could some of them be walking the surface of Runeterra right now?_ ' Her question remained unanswered.

That night, despite her normally rational demeanor, she couldn't help but sleep a restless sleep with her fragmented blade clutched tightly to her chest.


	13. Chapter 13- Master Yi

**Thank you all for the reviews! This chapter was finished at 2:30 A.M. and thus it is neither proofread nor reread. That I will save for tomorrow. Please leave a comment, and thank you for reading this far! You have no idea how much this means to me!**

 **4 Years Ago**

The man in yellow expressed his satisfaction with an impressed grunt as his faithful Highlander was expertly whipped from his grasp by the flat edge of ebony steel, clattering to the rooftop many feet away. He looked up and caught the challenging smirk of his disciple, weapon aimed at his throat, daring him to make a move. He grinned, just as he had done moments before she'd disarmed him yet again under that fine evening sun.

"I'm beginning to think you enjoy this," Riven teased.

"Oh, I do," he reassured her. And it was true: she was his most successful student by far. So much progress was made in these past months that felt like weeks to the _Wuju_ bladesman. Over time, their spars and sessions became more one-sided, and Yi felt a sadness tug at his heartstrings at the thought that soon his student would likely leave and seek better things. After all, there was nothing much he could teach her, and as days ticked by he found _himself_ seeking advice while his student dished out lessons and crushing defeats in equal measures. Riven had become the master, and Yi the apprentice, though if she noticed she gave no indication.

Yi winked twice, activating the warp drive embedded in his helmet, and he blinked out of existence for the shortest second. As usual, he felt no lapse in time when he reappeared in front of his prized saber, and was forced to immediately dodge a swipe at his head.

She struck his blade once, twice, and on thrice she torqued the weapon from his hand in a fancy maneuver involving a lot of wrist- _his_ fancy maneuver. The weapon soared, but Riven would not let herself commit the same mistake. Yi examined her eyes with great interest as they calculated the trajectory of the sharp object, then, with impossible speed and grace, darted a hand to snatch the weapon at the hilt.

She looked at him again, and Yi threw up his hands. "I know when to surrender," he admitted.

She squinted her eyes. "I don't believe you."

"Good." Two blinks later and Yi was beside her. He managed to wrestle Highlander from her iron grip and dodge before she personally introduced him to her shattered sword.

He reengaged with a horizontal strike to her left. She didn't even try to block it, opting to step into the swing and swat at the inside hinge of his right wrist. Holding the sword with only his left, Riven firmly grasped the grip beneath the guard, twisted around, and flipped him over her back.

If Yi had simply released the handle, he wouldn't have somersaulted head-first over the stronger of the two, but as he was nearly as stubborn as his student, he'd foolishly refused to give it up. With an _Oomph!_ he landed, scoring a perfect 0 and Riven followed up with a kick to back of his left palm. Unarmed and dazed, Yi lay there.

One brief moment of recuperation later, he admitted, "I should have surrendered when I had the chance, eh?"

Riven laughed, and offered a sweaty hand to the master.

He knocked it away playfully and stood whilst mock-complaining, "Oh please, I am not _that_ old."

"You sure about that?" Riven shot back.

"Very," he chuckled, sauntering over to the edge of the tiled roof before plopping onto his haunches to stare at the lush greenery billowing in fine, silky waves. Riven sat next to him now and they sat silently for a spell, appreciating the fruits of their labor. It was so quiet, so peaceful. Yi inhaled deeply, separating the soft scent of flower blossoms from the tangy spices of the kitchen below them. He pondered the magnitude of men, women, and children that now slept beneath the waves of grass because of his and his student's work, concluding that there was no way to know the true answer. If the beautiful bouquet before them was any sort of hint, an uncountable collection of spirits resided upon the property with the swordsmen.

"Thank you."

It was as sudden as it was unexpected, and Yi glanced curiously over to Riven. "For what?"

"For everything. For sharpening my skills. For bringing my mind the peace it needed. For being a friend," Riven solemnly elaborated.

"There is no need," Yi smiled warmly.

Riven nodded. "Thought you might say that."

Another short period of wordless self-contemplation.

Riven stood. "I think I'm gonna head into the city for a while."

Yi acknowledged the response. He knew the blonde's favorite method for sorting restless thoughts was walking the barren cobbled streets. "I will be here."

"Alright." With that, she nimbly leapt from the roof, reuniting with Runeterra with agile feet. Yi watched her leave, noting the confidence in each footfall. She was already strong of heart and body, but her stay at the temple had changed her, granting her infinite courage.

If the Vision gifted to the master during his previous night's sleep held any semblance of the future, Riven would need every drop. Riven was gone now, wistfully wandering through the dead arteries of the city that once breathed of life and joy. He removed the helm from his head, and placed it next him. His sword, summoned to him ages ago, hovered in air opposite the helmet. He closed his eyes, and allowed his mind and body to meld into a single being.

Everything was ready. All was as it was supposed to be.

Instinct awoke Yi from his meditation. It was time.

The full moon spectated comfortably from above, nestling cozily in the cool, speckled blanket of night. Down the road a figure approached, but it was not Riven. This was person was too tall, too wide, too ominous to be his apprentice. No, this was fate coming to collect its dues in the guise of a man from long ago. The man's footsteps were soundless though he wore wooden sandals that would no doubt create a racket if they were anyone else's. Everything about him was blue, Yi could see this even at this distance: his parachute pants were pale, pale blue; his robe was deep-sea blue; his endlessly undulating cloak was blue; his demeanor was a sad, somber blue. The straw hat and necklace of wooden spheres were the only not-blue garments covering the figure with six, sickly eyes obscured by the brim of the headdress.

Yi inhaled. He was not afraid. Patiently, he awaited the approaching figure's arrival. The person halted in front of the fountain.

Yi vaulted the well and landed 10 feet before the visitor.

"You are here for me, yes?" Yi queried.

The guest's voice was heavy and booming. "I'm here to finish what I started."

Yi accepted the answer, but there was one thing that gnawed at him. "After all these years, why now?"

"You've grown soft." Of course he would think that. Then he admitted, "I've been watching you for some time now, you, and that _Noxian pig_ you deem worthy."

Yi bristled; she was where he drew the line. "That _Noxian pig_ renounced her citizenship because she saw her country for what it was. She is as far from the Noxus you know as you are from sanity, and is more worthy of my attention than anyone."

An uproarious cry resonated from somewhere beneath the mask. "She is _NOXIAN_ , you _FOOL_! She will destroy us all! _SHE_ did this to me! What could she possibly offer that I couldn't?!" The man studied Yi for a moment, then cackled. "You _love_ her! HA!"

"Yes," Yi admitted, "as you once loved me, sensei. As a father loves his child, I care for her deeply."

The man shook his head in disgust. "You fool, you incompetent fool."

Yi realized his master's ailment then, as the muttering man stood still as a statue. "You are jealous."

He didn't respond to that.

Yi chuckled bitterly. "You…you are a very different man." He took a shaky breath. "You are not Grandmaster Yi anymore. You are a thing, a thing damned to walk the earth for eternity."

Yi drew his weapon, and flicked the switch for his goggles. "Enough. The time for talk has passed."

Out of nowhere, the man wielded a pike, the long, center blade flanked by two silver crescents facing outward. "On that, and only that, I agree."

As they had before everything, before the war, before the attack, before the massacre, they poised for battle, and for the first time in history, Master Yi faced Grandmaster Yi in a final duel.

Ooooo

Riven heard the clash halfway across the village, and it wasn't due only to her supersensitive hearing; whoever they were, they were really going at it. Fearing the worst, she ran with the wind at her back, not quite flying, yet not quite walking. Dust from the dead kicked up in her wake, creating large black clouds of decay and dirt.

Riven didn't know what scared her more: the fact that there was fighting at the temple or the duration of the fight at the temple.

After what seemed to be decades though was likely less than a minute, Riven turned the corner. A flash of yellow lightning battled a maelstrom in front of the fountain, but Riven couldn't discern a winner.

She was so close, less than 50 feet away, when the storm of cobalt speared her master through the gut. She stumbled, and ground to a standstill.

Yi howled in pain, but it was nothing next to Riven's agonized scream. The killer turned to look at her, and she was taken aback at the six orbs where eyes should be.

" _YOU BASTARD!_ " she cried, but he'd already turned tail to run, his mission complete. She wanted to chase him, wanted to listen to the last strangled screech as she choked the life from him but her master needed her help.

He'd collapsed, clutching his wound so near to his heart and Riven knew no amount of meditation would heal this injury. She rushed to his side, gathering him up in her arms, elevating his head in the crook of her elbow, her free hand pressing against the gash in his chest. No matter how firmly she pressed, no matter how completely she covered the fatal tear blood seeped through her fingers in lustrous, crimson rivers, and she could feel her legs soaking in the red liquid.

He murmured something but she didn't hear it. Though she knew this was not her fault, she still felt the need to apologize. "M-master Yi, I'm so sorry! I should have _been_ here! I should have-!"

"Ichirou," he corrected in a single breath.

"What?" She leaned in so close.

"I am not Master…Yi… I am Ichirou…"

"It's lovely," Riven sniffled.

He placed a bloody finger on her heart, and told her, "…You… are Master Yi…"

The whites of Riven's eyes were visible from lightyears away, and she stuttered, "I-I'm-?"

He chuckled, and the action cost him seconds of his life, blood steadily pouring from the wound. "Who else would I pick? The dragon?" At this, Yi laughed loudly, curling up from Riven's lap before wheezing and slumping back into her arms. "No… I have faith… in you," he completed with a cough.

"Please don't leave me," Riven pleaded, though she knew neither could do anything to delay what was coming.

"You do not need me… anymore…," He raised his bloody hand to her cheek. "Goodbye."

Ichirou died with a shudder seconds later.

The tears gushed in waterfalls down her face as she clamped her eyes shut and held him close. As far as she was concerned, Yi was her father; her biological parents in Noxus were nothing more to her than assigned caretakers, and having the first person she could actually say she loved violently ripped from her tore her insides to shreds.

She sobbed for eons, her sorrow staining her mentor's sleek robe. She raised her head to stare at his tranquil expression, gently caressing his face. When she had no more tears to cry, she carefully laid him onto the pathway, placing his sword that still glowed as bright as ever between his hands. She took what little sense of pride she could muster when she noticed that the crystal was not clean.

Riven expected the fiery licks of fury, the unquenchable thirst for vengeance, or at least mild contempt, but none came. In their places was a cold emptiness: she knew what needed to be done. She had to find this person, this six-eyed murderer, and end them. If it killed Yi- no Ichirou- it could not possibly ally itself with the forces of good.

Riven wiped her eyes. She would bury her master's body only after she created a new one. That was how life is in war, Riven decided. One life for another. The platinum-blonde turned away and began tracking the boxy footprints.

The hunter was now the hunted.

ooooo

The man wanted her to find him; it was the only logical justification for him to hide behind a corner, weapon at the ready. She'd followed his painfully obvious trail through dips and dives, across rooftops and through tunnels, ducking into backstreets. They lead her farther, but she could hear the rustle of his clothes in the wind, and an irregular heartbeat so faint Riven thought it was her own footsteps.

Whoever he was was attempting an ambush. Riven decided to play his game, if only momentarily. She walked forward at a brisk pace, for if she trudged any slower he would know she was onto his scheme.

She was a measly foot away from the corner when he attacked with the same move he'd used to skewer her master: a head-on jab to her heart. In one smooth motion, she drew her weapon holstered on her left hip, smacking the pole upwards, then bring the hilt of her sword crashing down onto the crown of his head. She shoved him with her foot into the open air of the street. He recovered using his spear, spun once then faced her.

"How dumb do you think I am?" she snarled.

"You followed me here." It was the first time she'd heard his voice.

Riven used their interactions to buy time so she could size him up.

His clothes were all blue, and Riven stole several glances to his hand to confirm that, yes, his skin was purple, and yes, he sported two fingers and a thumb on each appendage.

He did not breath, and the pulse of his heart was almost inaudible.

He exuded little scent, but what was there was horrendous and gagging. The fumes smelled of the noxious chemicals that rained from Zaunite death machines.

Then she focused on his eyes, by far the most interesting feature of the man. Two rows of three, stacked evenly atop each other almost hummed with their brilliance. After gazing into the thing's eyes, she observed that their luminescence was not constant. They flickered individually in a pattern Riven had seen somewhere before…

The truth hit her like a freight train. "You are Grandmaster Yi, aren't you?"

"Perhaps," he replied cryptically, but that confirmed her suspicions. He reciprocated, "And you… despite years of watching from the shadows, I don't know you're name."

' _Years of watching in the shadows_ ,' Riven relayed in her head. She did not like that at all, but at least he didn't know her name.

His next question was predictable. "Since you know mine, maybe you could tell me yours?"

"You don't need to know that."

"Oh?" he chortled, "And why's that?"

"The dead have no use for names," and Riven advanced.

Her swipe was diagonal and held great power, but with both hands he blocked. He threw her arm to her left, spun his weapon over his head to create momentum, and tried to offset her rhythm with a straight downward blow.

But Riven was not yielding the offense just yet. It was _her_ mentor that had been slain, not his. It had been _her_ sacred ground he'd desecrated, not the other way around. Therefore, this was _her_ battle, and she would make sure they would fight on _her_ terms, not his. She sidestepped, then poked his left shoulder. Her blade was black with blood, but he showed no sign of pain. He spun clockwise, but that was his mistake: she stepped in, raised her weapon to block and when the impact jarred her wrist, she dashed forward and rammed his shoulder with her own.

He stumbled awkwardly and Riven moved in again, realizing at the last second it was a trap; what looked on the surface like a desperate spin to face his opponent was a cleverly disguised jab at her gut.

She parried the move with her knee striking the flat edge and redirecting its path. He redoubled by roping it in, hoping to tear open her side with the hook of the crescent but she pirouetted away, simultaneously slashing in a wide horizontal arc. He ducked and tried to knock her off balance by striking her with the middle of the staff running perpendicular to her body.

With her one free hand she grasped the wooden pole, stared into the goggles fused to his face, then with mighty force, head-butted the man so hard his hat almost crumbled to pieces, and he almost fell over. That was fine by Riven- she could finally focus on cutting the bastard down.

She approached, and realized he was genuinely stunned, not faking as he had before. Her cranium would develop a nasty bruise later, she thought. The quick cut to his face was well worth it, however.

The Grandmaster did not immediately attempt an attack, which likely meant he was not confident of his ability to strike her outright. This was a huge boost to her confidence, but she grounded herself before it impaired her ability to fight.

The first strike was diagonal, just as the very first was, but he didn't try to counter this time. The second was a diagonal from the opposite angle, the third a low horizontal from the right, and the fourth another horizontal, higher and from the other direction. He parried, blocked, or dodged all of them, and on her fourth he batted her saber away presumably to riposte. However, his weapon was no longer guarding his upper torso and face, and she sent a crushing left cross that knocked him back a few steps.

She advanced, attacking him once, twice, thrice, and on the fourth a parry, and this time he was able to initiate a riposte: a stab to her upper chest. But Riven was fast, and he'd overused the move at this point, so without moving her feet, she bent to the right, twisting to jab his shoulder again, digging so deep she created a _spluck!_ as she ripped the blade free.

Forward she strode as she attacked again with a jab to the belly that was deflected, and redoubled, twirling the blade to turn his downward parry into a downward swipe that struck home. She tried to double the damage with an immediate vertical swipe from below but he blocked.

On the fourth hit of this sequence, Riven attempted a slash at his throat, and when he parried he used the momentum to spin. Right before his weapon disappeared behind his back, the twin steel moons ignited into an unearthly flame not of this world, and Riven's instinct told her this blow would kill her if she tried to disrupt its path. The platinum-blonde ducked, and several singed hairs drifted past her eyes; it was certainly much faster than his previous attacks.

And suddenly she was forced to take up defense, dodging and diving as he masterfully whipped and twirled his flaming weapon. But no matter how hard he swung, how fast his strikes were he could not hit her. He'd came damn close several times, and Riven could tell in the growing desperate and erratic nature of his fancy blade work he was feeling grinding frustration.

"Stand still, Noxian scum!" He roared.

Somewhere in his swings, his flame had died, but Riven was still dodging, biding her time. Then-

-There. His anger defeated his self-control, and he made a powerful, yet weak attempt to slice her in half. The angle was perfect, and Riven acted.

She raised her blade to meet the spearhead, locking the fork of her blade around the staff, but did not contribute any force to stopping it. She took a single stride inward, placed her hand on his, and pivoted with the direction of his blow. She pushed outward on his hand and pulled the intertwined saber toward her, effectively levering his weapon out of his hand.

It worked beautifully, his weapon flying behind them, and Riven continued to twist, the shard she clutched on an intercept course with his throat.

The Grandmaster was weaponless, so he could not parry. His arms were too low to reliably block. The woman was too close and too fast for him to duck away in time. He had no choice but to accept the strike.

The blade may have been shattered, but it was razor-sharp. Cold, cursed steel scored through violet flesh, spewing onyx sheets across every surface within close proximity. Her blade coated with an even sheen, she struck again, piercing below his ribcage and angled upward to impale his vital organ.

But despite his fatal injuries, he did not die. With great effort, he heaved her off of him, and through her shock she managed to roll back to her feet. He launched himself over her head, landing on his grotesque hands before he snatched his weapon away from the earth and turned once more to look at her smugly; if one can look smug through goggles.

He guffawed. "You didn't think it was gonna be that easy, did you? If your toxic sludge from Hell can't kill me, how could you possibly hope to stack up to the champ?"

Riven racked her mind, searching the depths of all of the knowledge she possessed to try to concoct a situation where he might die and she might not- and then she remembered what Ichirou told her about curses.

A curse removes a curse, and magic removes magic.

' _But my sword is already cursed, though, and it didn't kill him. Unless…_ '

Riven chortled, then chuckled, then outright cackled at her own vanity before returning to a cool, stony grimace. She didn't know why she didn't do it before. Perhaps she still held the smallest remnants of honor?

"Alright. So that's how you wanna play it huh?" she asked.

She cracked her neck to the side.

Ashes rustled, wooden floors creaked, and Riven's bloody toga floated in air as a colossal column of pure wind seemed to spawn from her very being. The winds picked up, flying at gale-force speeds, throwing coarse, stinging dirt into the face of her opponent.

Her eyelids converged over crimson irises, and when they retracted a solid glass pane of green replaced her old eyes. Emerald energy crackled in bursts from her skin, mixing with the unstoppable cyclone to create an emerald, electrified twister that destroyed all in its path.

Her sword was whole again, splinters joined at seams of awesome green and she became her own light source, filling the drab environment with vibrant, vicious green.

"Then that's how we'll play it."

Riven slashed at the air, and where she cleaved an insurmountable barrier of wind swept out of nowhere. The grandmaster was forced to his knees, and Riven took advantage of his disadvantage.

She sprung from her position, and struck at him from the right. He tried to block, but with a _crack!_ the Runic Windblabe traveled through his weapon and cut deep into his torso. He truly had no weapon, and thus he could block the same maneuver from the opposite side. The canyons created by the cursed sword burned bright green and did not heal.

To complete the round of three, Riven front flipped skyward, illuminating the darkness, and flew downward to cut the man in half. The Grandmaster rolled backward just far enough to miss the blade-

-But the all-powerful Ki Burst sent him hurtling through the air, enveloped in an emerald field of shocking static. He landed, and looked up just in time to witness Riven run the sword through his chest hilt-deep.

They stood there, Riven grasping her saber embedded in the Grandmaster who was resisting the pull of death to the very end. Finally, the Grandmaster's strength gave out, and he dropped to his knees.

He slowly looked up at her. In a hushed, disbelieving voice, he stared up at the green-eyed, god-like warrior with the wind on her side and asked, "…Who are you?"

Riven decided to answer. The ashen-haired woman dismissed the weapon, dismissed her shield, and dismissed the wind. All was still again as she replied, "I'm Master Yi."

Her knee darted forward and connected with his face, the sound of disintegrating glass accompanying the electronic crunch of hardware as she smashed his goggles into his face. He crumpled backwards and stilled.

Grandmaster Yi was dead.

ooooo

Riven returned to lay her master's body to rest at the crack of dawn. As the first glimpses of sunlight peaked over the horizon of demolished houses, she stabbed Highlander into the dirt mound above him. As was customary, she planted a seed with his body, but she did not stick around to watch it blossom. She did not want to leave the place for ruin to claim, but she saw no other choice. Her sensei was the only thing keeping her at the temple, and without him, she began to feel the restless stirrings of adventure tickle her soul and so she did what he'd want her to do.

She moved on.


	14. Chapter 14- A Rock and a Hard Place

**For all of you who saw the romance tag and assumed this would be a smut story, your time is coming soon. It's 3:00 where I live but I wanted to get this out. Thanks for all of the support! Please leave a comment on your way out the door!**

 **1 Year Ago**

The woman with wistful curiosity swirling in sanguine pools directed those vermilion irises skyward to balk at the immense bulwark guarding the inner mechanisms of the Demacian capital. Rugged and defiant, yet somehow tranquil and inviting, the walls matched the general personalities of the people it guarded. The Herculean fortifications swept across plains of gentle grass meadows, circling around to encase the city in a semicircular blockade of sandy, impenetrable stone. Every so often a guard post interrupted the otherwise unblemished crest, and Riven could spy armored, ant-like figures swarming the nests, thoroughly surveying the luscious landscape for any enemies of Demacia.

Unfortunately for Riven, they'd pegged her dark, Noxian complexion as a foe from a distance, and a short walk over the sturdy arch connecting colossal oaken doors to the opposite embankment of the abysmally steep moat, guards decked in shiny plate beneath red, flowing cloaks clutching poles garnished with ornate razors rushed her position.

"Halt!" the point man shouted, face beat-red with fury and territorial aggression.

Riven halted and mentally prepared to knock heads- she would never kill them, no matter how desperately the situation called for it. If nothing other than skilled, Riven was idealistic, and even though they would throw the first blow, she would not retaliate with lethal force if only because her conscious demanded it.

"What seems to be the problem, captain?" She knew exactly what the problem was: even though years had passed since the last Noxian-Demacian war, the people were still wary of their eastern counterparts. Riven couldn't blame them.

"What is your business here?" he demanded angrily.

Riven sighed; she faced the same old gimmick everywhere she traveled, be it the icy, frozen tundra of the Frejlord, the buggy, scorching heat of the Kumungu Jungles, or the crusty, dank taverns of Bilgewater. Everyone, even the savage pirates of the salty seas, regarded her with such disdain, disgust, and animosity that if their cries of outrage at her presence were hard liquor, the world would be drunk ten times over. The wanderer had hoped in vain that the Demacians' sharp, murderous view of their neighbors had dulled, and why Riven had hoped _they_ , of all people, would let go of the past she had no idea.

Coolly, and with practiced tonality she replied, "I'm here to revel in what your city has to offer, nothing more."

"So a spy, eh?" he prodded. He really, _really_ wanted a fight.

"No, I am not a spy. I simply want to-,"

"'Revel in what the city has to offer', yes, yes we heard, but we don't believe it. After all," he stood taller, and adopted a haughty tone, "we _all_ know that to _Noxians_ , lying is only second to killing."

"No, you got it all wrong. It's lying, then killing, then stealing your wives and children," Riven sarcastically retorted.

The captain huffed. "What's your name, Noxian?"

"Master Yi."

She'd used his final gift extensively in recent years. His name did, in fact, carry weight on the Continent, though all that was rumored was that he was the last _Wuju_ master alive. Riven couldn't ask for a more perfect setup; the backstory was vague outside of Ionia so there would be few skeptics to cry foul at her incorrect gender, or mismatched heritage. Under her possession, his name had acquired an illustrious reputation. Who had slain the unsayable, the terror of the Shurima Desert, the monster beneath the sands known as Rek' Sai? Master Yi had gutted the otherworldly beast from the inside: the nomadic tribe the thing had been targeting had witnessed the epic battle of cunning and cleverness. Who had investigated, tracked, and then killed a particularly ruthless Higher Vampire, a sadistic being capable of donning a guise of flesh to appear average? It was by Master Yi's enchanted blade that the cursed creature had been struck down, saving an entire village from a horrible fate. Who had walked the mysterious Voodoo Lands from which no one ever returned and survived without a scratch to body or soul? Why it was none other than the undefeatable Master Yi. The name was legendary, and she was proud of her accomplishments.

The man had obviously heard of her monumental achievements, and stuttered, "M-master Yi? M-my apologies! It's just that I thought-didn't think that you'd be, well…"

"Noxian? A woman?" she finished for him.

"…Yes," he admitted sheepishly.

"That's alright," she said conciliatorily. "Now, can I enjoy your wonderful city or not?"

"Y-yes, yes of course, madam!" His posture straightened, and he pivoted on one spot. "This is the honorable Master Yi-," Riven flinched, "-she is to be treated with utmost respect. Now, make way!"

At his command, the guards parted, an equal number in parallel rows perpendicular to her direction. In a single, harmonized motion, they raised their polearms several inches from the ground, then slammed them simultaneously to create a synchronized clack against the cobbled floor.

"You have unrequited access to the city, Master Yi."

"Thank you." And with that, she waltzed to the doors and disappeared into the pride of Demacia.

Gorgeous. That was the only possible way to describe the magnificent architecture standing stock still and silent, as if the city knew how beautiful it was but didn't care. Pristine columns of exquisite marble sparkled in the morning sunlight, and walls of immaculate white stone grouped together to create massive, pure structures. Spires topped with breezy blue cones littered the skyline, growing arbitrarily larger as the closed in on the royal palace, and flags of a deep, luxurious wine red sporting the yellow Demacian crest billowed gracefully upon the lofty towers, boasting to all who might listen that this truly is the greatest city in the world. Riven didn't know if she agreed with that notion yet, but her mind was as open as the sprawling courtyards, elaborately engineered tiles interweaving to create jigsaw patterns of titanic proportions. Gargantuan banners sketched with insignias flooded the walls, the material surging and swelling across the expanse of ivory threatening to spill over the joining of ground and rampart and overwhelm the passersby. Trees and flowers in full bloom swayed in gardens behind black, twisted wrought iron bars coerced into complex diagrams by the sweltering forges of smiths that were a common sight in the lively city.

Embedded in the snazziest of buildings for the snazziest of people were large mosaics, some stretching the length and width of the wall they blessed with their glamor and divine aesthetic, but all bore an exuberant palette of colors and varying hues that meshed so intimately with one another that the individual pieces almost seemed to shift with the viewer, creating a rolling, thunderous sea of emotion and unity.

Between extravagant estates and lavish mansions sat ritzy restaurants serving appetizing eats of all nationalities, curio shops hawking the strangest and most unusual trinkets and toys, pubs that transformed into gentlemen's clubs after sundown that catered with tantalizing appeal, and all of the other utilities and stores that reside within the average city limits, though these typically possessed some quality that couldn't be found anywhere else.

The capital sat upon the shore, but the city did not yield to the sea. If one studied the seashore buildings closely enough, they might notice how they bob and weave with the rolling waves; this is because the Demacians are an ambitious folk, and decided that they did not need Mother Earth to construct their numerous academies of techmaturgy, their temples made of milky chalk, and their palaces of stubborn noble-born. So in the place of dirt and sand, they floated on water, invading the sacred territory of Father Ocean. The ocean voiced the Father's feelings on this betrayal, endlessly frothing with white rage and ugly wrath, but the people utilized arcane spells and wizardry to stave off the vengeful Conqueror's Sea.

While the environment certainly was interesting, it was not Riven's center of attention. The castles and parapets were impressive, but the people fascinated the platinum-blonde to no end. Demacian culture was rich and diverse, with an ethnic melting pot where people from across the globe were represented among the population. Posh aristocrats adorned with deluxe, purple robes, golden keychains, silver necklaces and lockets, and brilliant, flashy gemstones pompously paraded the streets, a gaggle of paparazzi perpetually in their wake. Even the average commoner seemed somewhat financially stable, usually dressed in finely-crafted garb.

But with these people Riven failed to relate to; sure their upscale lifestyles were unaffordable to her, but she honestly couldn't imagine living in such a plush domain devoid of the dangers that gave life its spice and intrigue. The poor people of the city, the one's brushed into back alleys for fear of tarnishing the perfect image the city council maintained was where Riven could truly empathize. Wearing rags and infections of all kind, they stalked the backstreets, forming their own coalition of the stomped-upon and silenced. Gang warfare was not a problem in the Demacian capital, but there existed a black market so well hidden with roots so deep into the deceptively rotten political underbelly that Riven could likely count on one hand the number of people that knew that shouldn't, and she was still undecided on whether to feel proud of her astute perception or weary of traitors watching her every move.

And there were traitors watching her every move; every once in a while a curtain would flicker, the signature glint of a scope in the belfry of a distant church would reveal itself for a split second, or she would detect the light footsteps of someone sprinting from her position. Riven had not planned on acting as the silent assassin flying across rooftops, slitting throats and snapping necks, but she would, and she certainly could, if this third party ever reared its head.

' _Oh well. If something does happen, it'll just be something else to add to the list of accomplishments of 'the impeccable Master Yi.'_ '

Riven contemplated life and its meaning while crunching on fette biscottate and sipping a foamy cappuccino that she was told "would give you unlimited vigor." It was ok. She wasn't much of a coffee enthusiast, and the cookies were rather tasteless but she imagined it a cultural thing; she'd grown up on thick, greasy meats and alcohol so bitter the cringe it inspired could squeeze the face of the most dedicated of alcoholics, a meal she'd heard described as "the worst fucking meal I've ever had the displeasure of ingesting, who the fuck eats this horseshit." Still, the caffeine was appreciated, though her current state didn't necessitate a pick-me-up.

The clacking of heels signified the approach of the waitress, a cute 20-something-year-old brunette with a nice ass framed in a black skirt that halted just above the knee.

"Would you like somezing else, madam?" she asked in the accent typical of most bluebloods, though why she was waiting tables if she likely owned a fortune Riven couldn't say.

What Riven did know was that she was attractive, and that she'd reciprocated her flirting. The platinum-blonde decided to shoot for the moon, and made her case by briefly fluttering her eyes, arching her back to emphasize her womanly features, and in a suggestive tone said, "No thanks, unless of course _you_ are on the menu."

The woman leaned in, arousal welling her ochre eyes as she purred, "And if I am?"

Riven leaned forth as well, and with a sultry smirk she said, "I'd rather show you."

She seemed satisfied with the answer, as she'd smiled right back, written her address on a napkin, and bent over to whisper seductively in her ear, "My place at 8:00, _cherié_." She stood, winked, and left.

' _Nice. I get laid and I don't have to pay the ridiculous price for a room,_ ' she thought. Riven collected her things, pushed in her chair, and left with a smile.

ooooo

Riven arrived promptly at 7:57 P.M. wearing the same gear she always wore: a skirt down to mid-thigh and a purple corset that fit the mood surprisingly well, now that Riven thought about it. The apartment in question was one of many in the district, in that it was high-quality for its class but not high enough to be considered anything higher. The people here lived in limbo, in the space between the world of riches and the world of simply making a decent living. It was almost unfair, like being the second-best in everything; it was still very good and better than most people, but they can never quite be the best. No one really knew how to treat them, and thus they were more or less forgotten. Tragic, really.

The blonde knocked once on the above-average-but-not-quite-rich door and waited patiently.

She was greeted with a very pleasant sight: the woman with the mesmerizing eyes in nothing but a black, lacy bra with matching panties, showing everything except what Riven really wanted to see. Creamy skin gleamed in the lamplight, and a teasing grin was set firmly across her face.

"I zink we can drop ze pretense, non?" the woman said, before hooking a finger into Riven's skirt and pulling her forward into her buxom breasts in a passionate kiss.

' _This is going to be fun._ '

ooooo

Riven awoke naked to terrified screams, hostile shouting, and unwelcome hands groping her legs and arms. Her eyes snapped open just in time to feel a burlap sack roughly forced over her head. She could barely see, so instead she relied on her other senses to paint a picture of the scenario.

The violent shuffling and the cool breeze told her that both she and her lover were outside now. Through the sack, she spied what looked like torchlight, and a there was shouting and screaming so loud that Riven couldn't discern what they were saying.

A gust of wind hit the back of her knee before an unidentified foot did; she had time to react but she decided to play along to see what game they were playing. Several seconds later she wished she'd acted sooner.

She tried to move but she found her wrists bound with rope. Then all hands released her, and the brunette- Carla was her name- kneeled several feet to her left. Judging by their actions, Riven would've thought that their attackers would be low-life scum hired by some outside group, but her observations didn't support this theory. They did not smell of filth and grime, but of expensive perfumes. The very faint jingling of metal on metal piqued her curiosity and she realized seconds later that the sound she heard was the racket of the silver chain of a locket.

Imported fragrance and jewelery. These were nobles, though what they wanted and why they were doing this was still a mystery-

" _-BURN IN HELL YOU FUCKING FAGGOT-_ ," one of them shrieked.

-Oh. That would make sense.

Demacia's homophobia issue has long since been described as "out-of-hand," with mobs like these scouring the streets and acting as sort of a secret police. It was sick and twisted, and the council did very little to minimize the conflict. In truth, Demacia was currently in the middle of a civil war: pro-homosexuals vs. "fag haters". The battle for dominance had rent entire classes in half, with fathers disowning sons and mothers shunning daughters.

Carla was crying, blubbering, "Please do not kill us!" to their aggressors and "I am so sorry!" to Riven.

Riven tried to comfort her but before the words left her mouth, a loud, wet _thud!_ resounded beside her followed by the immediate cease of Carla's pleading wails.

Riven's blood turned to ice.

That familiar, coppery scent of blood invaded her nostrils, and Riven could no longer hear a heartbeat from the woman next to her. Carla had been executed via club.

Riven's blood turned to molten lava.

She stood slowly, and deliberately. Someone tried to kick her leg again, but they found it akin to kicking a slab of stone. Through sheer strength, she flexed, and seconds later her chafing restraint ripped under the tension exerted by the woman. A _pop!_ as the rope tore, and subsequently the crowd hushed to a deathly quiet. A single hand extended, and fingers clenched around the brown obstructer of her vision before tearing the thing off.

Riven's eyes were no longer the same shade of blood; now they were orange and fiery, reflecting the flames of fury razing her heart to its core. No words could describe the hatred lurking in the depths of her soulless eyes, and when she turned on her heel to face her would-be executioner, her searing glare stopped him in his tracks.

Her tone singed the man's eyebrows as she seethed, "If you're gonna kill me, at least look me in the eyes, you spineless, fuckless tool bucket."

He hesitated at first, but remembered how awful homosexuality was and reared back to swing the stained club and end the lecher's life.

He swung. Before the weapon reached the halfway point between his back and her head, her left fist hooked around and slammed into his cheek. His head whipped to the side, a brutal _crack!_ as his neck disintegrated. He dropped like a rock.

Riven looked up from the body. The mob had taken several steps back. Then, in unison, they screeched a war cry, and pounced.

The platinum-blonde was a flurry of fists and feet, elbows and knees. Every strike the warrior threw, every counter, and every grapple hit their target with killing power. Untouchable and near invincible, she rained blows with lethal intent, one new, broken body for every punch delivered to the unfortunate mob member. Heads jerked, necks cracked, jugulars crushed, craniums dented and chests caved in to suffocate the victim for a long and painful death. Riven's fists and knees were covered in blood, but none of it was hers. She was wired for lethal parameters, and no part of her conscience objected to the barbaric tactics of the master. Everything she touched crumpled to the floor and died.

There came a moment were there was no one left to kill, and all Riven could do to vent was to howl in agony. She turned, and with fear in her eyes she approached the hooded, unmoving body. A red stain occupied the area behind the woman's head, and when Riven wriggled her fingers to find that area at the crease of the neck and jaw, she detected no pulse. She hung her head solemnly. It was too late to do anything but remove the bag covering the delicate features of her face from the world.

Riven hadn't had the time to develop any sort of relationship with Carla that wasn't purely sexual, but that fact that this would have been entirely avoidable if she could've just kept it in her pants destroyed what was left of her heart.

Carla was so young, and already she had to die because of something she couldn't control. The whole ordeal was depressing.

Metal boots clanked against the cobbled street, and Riven stood to face the incoming guard. She was still without clothes, and when the men arrived Riven made no move to cover herself. They awkwardly focused on her face, attempting to not appear shallow though the concentration it took for them to perform the action only made them seem more so.

The captain stepped forth and demanded, "Did you do this?" even though it was very clear who did this.

' _I'm standing in a pool of bodies, and all that matters to the tin can is bureaucracy. 'Beacon of hope for humanity' my ass._ '

"It was an accident." Her reply was equal parts sarcastic, hollow, and cynical.

Someone to her right groaned. It seemed as if one of the bastards was still alive. That wouldn't do.

It was a woman that had survived the onslaught, and she lay inches away from Riven's left foot, face down, practically presenting herself to the last woman standing. Riven raised her foot. The captain cried to stop. She brought it down and the moaning ended with a crunch and a squeal fit for a pig.

She looked back up at the captain. "Oops."

ooooo

Riven sighed and answered the question again. "Yes, I killed them all. No, I didn't have help." It was the third time, and the interrogators weren't content with her answer.

The courthouse was as elegant and finely crafted as any other building in the capital, but the structure was different. Where other's humbly bragged their worth to the world, this building remained cold and unfeeling; pillars of marble gated the entrance like the bars of a prison cell, the roof domed and decorated on the inside with a single, wonderful piece of art of the original members of the court clutching scrolls bearing some writing Riven couldn't read, though if she were to hazard a guess, it probably read something like "Liars are damned to Hell" and "Hell hath no fury like a bunch of old farts on a power trip."

The central chamber rested directly beneath the giant tapestry, and in it was where the fates of many men and women had been decided. It was Riven's turn now.

The whole area was designed to force the weight of the offender's crimes to crush them with guilt, and the layout managed this feat very well. Indented about 4 feet into the center of the room, a circle about 20 feet in diameter was cut into the floor. It was here where the defendant made their case alone, for in Demacia there were no lawyers. Everyone must fend for themselves and answer to their own wrongdoings.

Surrounding this miniature arena, the seating for spectators elevated one level upward as they approached the rear wall, offering stadium seating for the viewers and ensuring all eyes were on the accused. A slice was cut from the pie to allow access to and from the center stand, and the hallway leading to the chair in the indent lead directly from the holding cells. The room was wide and tall, allowing many to witness the going-ons of the court.

On the end of the circle opposite the doors for the defendant to come and go from rose the platform from which the 5 Judges of the Court evaluated the validity of the claim and dished out harsh punishment for simple offenses. The whole thing reeked of the prejudices and fallacies of the old-world ideals of righteous justice served with extreme vengeance, and the men older than time itself acting as the Judges enforced this notion.

The scrawny one with the high, nasally voice and superiority complex practically screamed, "You expect us to believe you, one person, murdered an entire group, by yourself?" He'd refrained from calling them what they were- a lynch mob- for the duration of the entire session, and Riven had formed the suspicion that he believed in their cause. This should have infuriated her, but she figured she'd done enough damage is it was, and successfully quelled her inner demons.

"Yes."

He arrogantly huffed, "Ah, and the Shurima desert has frozen over."

"Oh? This is the most interesting news I've heard all day," she retorted, leaning in in faux interest.

His disproportionately humongous nostrils flared as he asked for the umpteenth time, "Now tell us the truth or be damned for eternity! Who helped you kill those men and women?"

She hung her head. "Fine. You got me. I'll spill my guts."

He puffed out his chest and glared triumphantly. "Finally you have come to the light. Now, who aided you in the massacre of those men and women?"

Riven looked up, and held up four fingers.

"Well, there was me," she retracted her pinky. The judge nodded, eagerly waiting to hear the truth.

"Myself," she retracted her ring finger, and at this the Judge screwed up his face in confusion.

"And I," she curled her index finger leaving only the middle standing defiantly in front of the Judge.

He finally understood, and shrieked in only the way someone angry with the world can shriek. Riven let a sly smile tug at the corners of her mouth as servants and the other Judges calmed the furious midget. It disappeared when the man-child regained his composure.

"Alright," he conceded, "Let us say, for a moment, that you did in fact kill 26 of the wealthiest nobles in the city. Without sustaining a single injury." The disbelief was evident in his voice, but he continued, "If this impossible series of events took place, why would these high members of society drag two women out into the street in the pitch of night, strip them down, then attempt to kill them both?"

Riven groaned. "Are you really gonna make me say it?" There was a sadistic gleam in his eye, and Riven realized he knew exactly what he was doing. She stared at him without hostility and said factually, "We all know we were naked before they tried to lynch us. What else would two naked women in an apartment be doing?"

He didn't answer. He really was going to make her say it.

She sighed. "We were fucking." The crowd exploded into a gossiping murmur.

The judge allowed it for a brief period, then commanded, "Silence!" Another short quiet. He appeared to be in thought, but Riven could tell with the way he glanced at her that he'd come to a conclusion long ago. She saw this coming a mile away, but the vanity of the past hours of questioning still peeved her.

With snobbish superiority he raised his head. "I have heard your testimony and considered your innocence, but with dubious evidence, you failed to persuade me. You are hereby declared guilty of 26 cases of homicide, the punishment being the only fit punishment for a serial killer."

' _Oh great._ ' The audience awaited with bated breath.

"You are sentenced to death by hanging. The date: tomorrow at sunrise."

Chaos erupted, and actual physical fighting occurred between the people attending the spectacle. Some were defending the platinum-blonde, claiming it was all self-defense, while others stated that this the punishment was just for such a high body count, while others still called for the hanging of all gays.

In the middle of it all, the one person who had justifiable reasons to panic remained calm. After all, it was difficult to fabricate an escape plan when the mind is in turmoil. It would require violence, but from what Riven had seen, she figured she could knock out anyone blocking her exit. She knew she could make it without restraints, but she refused to kill any more that week.

And then _she_ walked in, _she_ who would change Riven's way of life forever.

She used the entrance for prisoners, the one in the slice of the pie. Whoever she was, she was drop-dead gorgeous. She was not tall, but she was not short, and she held some sort of sword at her hip. On her feet were black stilettoes with a heel so tall Riven wondered how the woman could even stand as straight as she stood. Black, skintight leggings encased lean yet powerful thighs that spoke of many hours of intense training. A simple, silky white long-sleeved shirt that looked as if armor should be worn atop it hugged her breasts tightly to her body. Golden shoulder plates nested themselves on her shoulders, a neat, red cape covering only half of her back and flowing to the rear of her knee, and her right arm was enclosed within a sleek, golden vambrace. The left was bare save a notched glove, and when Riven spied the special gauntlet on her right arm, she pegged her for a fencer on the spot.

The woman had a hot bod, that was for sure, but the woman's face was where the beauty lay. Sharp cheekbones were covered with rosy skin, and a sleek jawbone complimented her petite nose. Thick, full lips were naturally scrunched, and Riven could only guess whether the frown was intentional or a product of her facial structure. Probably both. A single streak of purple ran through raven locks of jaw-length hair, and thin brows curved over shallow eyes.

The eyes entranced Riven. They were the kind one never forgets, a distinct sky-blue so prominent that their hue was distinguishable from the other side of the room. The woman was trying to appear emotionless, and for the most part it was very effective. The irises were acutely locked on Riven, and she could see the emptiness in them. However, swimming in the far recesses were the smallest traces of immense sorrow. Riven knew the look well; she'd worn it herself for years before she met Lee Sin.

As the woman firmly sauntered to the middle of the room, everyone hushed in awe; this person was clearly very important. She directed those sky-blue irises towards the little shitter on the podium.

Her voice was lilted with that classic Demacian accent, and Riven found herself yearning for the woman to speak more. Again, Riven could hear that near-nonexistent sadness in her voice as she demanded, "Is zis ze prisoner zat killed 26 people wiz her bare hands?"

The Judge appeared annoyed. "Yes, this is the murderer. I would speak fast; she will hang for her crimes tomorrow at sunrise."

The woman glanced to Riven, and the look Riven gave the woman told her, ' _In his dreams._ '

"Are you ze famed swordswoman known as Master Yi?" she questioned.

"Not for long, it doesn't sound like," Riven replied.

The woman snorted. "Him? Please, he is an incompetent fool unfit to judge anyone but himself."

Riven gave her a funny look and she asked "What?"

"I'm pretty sure he heard that." The room was intently listening to their conversation.

"Humph. Good." She glared at the mini-man, and the mini-man glared at the woman.

"What exactly do you require, Miss Fiora?"

' _Fiora. Pretty name for a pretty lady._ '

The woman known as Fiora pointed a finger at Riven's chest and stated, "I am here for her."

"Why?" Riven and the Judge both queried in unison.

It happened in an instant. Fiora drew the weapon, a rapier, and in a single, fluid move slashed at Riven's throat.

Riven let her body react. It was two inches from her throat when her left palm clamped down hard on her right, catching the blade skillfully between two hands. Riven didn't throw the tip in another direction; instead she stared into the eyes of her would-be murderer with absolutely nothing in her own. It conveyed a readiness and a willingness to kill, for Riven was always ready to kill.

There was a fire in the woman's widened eyes that hadn't been there before. An excited smile tugged at the edges of her lips. She tried to retrieve her weapon, but Riven wasn't done yet. She admittedly cheated, calling upon the wind to aid her with speed, but the accuracy as her knee raised to strike the crook of the woman's wrist, forcing her to let go of the weapon was all natural.

Grasping the blade and resting the handle casually on her shoulder, she informed Fiora with an empty expression, "I think I'll hang on to this for now."

Riven expected anger. She did not expect the move to kindle the flames of _something_ in the fencer's eyes.

"How much must I pay for her life?" the woman eagerly asked.

The Judge looked very confused, but not more than Riven. The man said, "Fiora, I do not think you understand the weight of the crime this- this _thing_ has committed. 26 people have fallen at her hands, Fiora."

"Why do you zink I am here? Answer my question. How much for her life?" she said once again, sounding very annoyed.

He seemed flabbergasted, but still replied, "W-Well, let us see here…26 lives… murder is 2,500 crowns… carry the 2… Well that turns out to be-," he squinted at his scratch paper, "- 65,000 crowns for the freedom of Master Yi."

Riven didn't know what shocked her more: the miniscule amount of money they valued a life at or the fact that one can literally buy their way out of death. She detected heavy whiffs of the choking fumes of corruption.

"I will take it," she said without hesitation, and Riven turned back to her. Fiora noticed the awed gaze and explained, "It is a drop in ze bucket."

The Judge reluctantly conceded, "Alright. One homicidal maniac for 65,000 crowns."

Fiora turned to Riven, and motioned for the sword. Riven shook her head.

Fiora frowned. "I just paid 65,000 crowns to save you from ze gallows. Ze least you can do is give me back my rapier."

"No, the least I can do is stay right here and watch you leave. I didn't need your help," Riven corrected. "I appreciate your help, but I didn't need it. Why are you willing to pay 65,000 to save a woman who, for all you know, killed 26 people in cold blood?"

"I will explain later. Now please, mademoiselle, hand over my rapier," she urgently commanded.

Riven hesitated, but eventually caved in. "Alright. Turn."

"What? Why?"

"I don't trust you with it, obviously, so I'll sheath the thing myself. Now turn."

Fiora turned, however hesitantly, and raise her arm to allow better access. Riven took the weapon several inches from the tip of the blade and guided the point through the loop, sliding the weapon until the hilt prevented going any further.

"See what happens when you explain things?" she said sarcastically.

"Yes, and I will explain zings to you as well, but not here. Now come." With that, she turned on one heel and strutted out the hallway, gracing the platinum-blonde with a clear shot at her rear.

She made to leave as well, and in a final act of disobedience, she flipped the bird one last time. This was so not her but the rising screams of puny rage made it all worth it.


	15. Chapter 15- The Grand Duel

**So I know I've been putting X Years Ago on top of all of these, but I'm not going to do it this time because this chapter picks up directly where the last chapter left off, so just assume that when there is no X Years Ago, it's the same relative time as the last chapter. Special shout-out to all of my reviewers and followers and favoriters: I cannot express in words how much your feedback means to me. Y'all are the main reason why I've kept posting this story, so thanks for everything! I edited the last chapter, but it's not really worth going back to look at it if you've already seen it. Enjoy!**

From a distance, the Laurent mansion did not distinguish itself from its neighbors. There were the silken carpets of grass, manicured almost daily to uniform length. There were the looming arches of gold and silver and bronze that hung from every alley, nook, and cranny. There were the multitudinous windows that gazed perversely over every inch of ground of the estate. There was the unnecessarily-high fence topped with long, sharp spikes to deter anyone who tried to scale the boundary between the wealthy and everyone else. There were the towers that jabbed mercilessly at the innocent sky in a futile attempt to outdo their neighbors across the way. There was the mansion itself, blocky and multi-storied, twisting around a fountain where a nude, petrified cherub eternally spit forth an even stream of crystal-clear water into the well surrounding the unfortunate babe. It was flashy. It was superficial. It was everything Demacia praised: it's not the inside that matters, but what people see on the exterior that determines who one is.

And like all the castles in the city, this elaborate lie possessed a common theme: the rose. The gardens were bursting with them, their passionate, blood-soaked petals subtly planting seeds of unrest in Riven's heart- their hue was certainly no coincidence. Dozens of blue banners stained with a white crest of the flower draped over the stone walls, and pressed metal plates clung to the iron bars of the fence that circumnavigated the property. The place was obsessed with the flower, wearing it pridefully upon every surface that could accommodate the blossom.

A dark-haired man wearing a cobalt-blue overcoat with flared cuffs and gold highlights over darker, tightfitting pants and a frilly, white ascot that spilled forth from the collar greeted the duo as they approached the gates that stood open. He was pale, as pale as the woman Riven followed now, and his tired, earthy eyes examined the newcomer.

He spoke with the same accent as her sister, despair as present as Demacia. "Again? And how much did you pay for her?"

' _Again?_ ' Riven quered to herself. The brunette had yet to explain herself, and Riven was left to draw her own conclusions.

Fiora huffed, and snapped, "What is it to you?"

His head bobbed backwards, appalled at the question. "What is it to me? You are squandering ze family fortune on zese- zese criminals and outcasts for what?!"

"I am ze head of House Laurent, and as long as I carry the honor of our name on my shoulders, my motives will not be questioned," she authoritatively responded, striding past with purpose. She added, "Besides, Ammdar, you know perfectly well why I do what I do."

The man walked in tow of the two women, stating, "No, and neizer do you."

Fiora made no comment, so Riven decided it the perfect time to ask, "Why am I here?"

No response from either of them.

"Alright, then I'm out," Riven informed the both of them, turning tail and briskly walking toward the gate.

"You are not going anywhere," Fiora stated.

Riven snorted without turning around, "Watch me."

"I paid 65,000 crowns for your life. I will not 'watch you' as you walk out ze gate."

Ammdar stuttered, "65,000 crowns? Have you gone mad!?"

"Yes you will," Riven retorted.

"You are my property. Your leaving carries the same punishment as a slave that runs from their master," Fiora replied.

Riven stopped, and faced her. "Since when has slavery been legal in Demacia?" This was new; she couldn't recall the city-state ever participating in the slave trade.

"It has not for a long time. But you are in debt to me, and according to Demacian law, you must serve me until I do not require you anymore."

"That seems highly subjective."

"It is very subjective. But it is ze law, and because you are wizin ze confines of ze city, you must obey ze law or suffer ze consequences."

Fiora carried a point. If Riven were to attempt escape, the entire city guard would descend upon her with extreme prejudice. She figured she could fight her way out, flying across rooftops and scaling whatever needed scaling. However, that would require killing, and as judgmental and grumpy as the police force tended to be (she knew this from experience", they didn't deserve death. With no viable plan of escape, she unwillingly decided to see what the fencer had planned for the ashen-haired warrior.

"Fine," she conceded. She mustered what dignity she had and returned to the group.

Ammdar looked to her as they walked, eventually shifting his gaze to shake his head at the ground, muttering, "…65,000 crowns…"

The first thing Riven noticed when she walked through the entrance to the mansion was the opposite wall. A massive mosaic of the crest of House Laurent ominously filtered all but the most dismally grim tints and shades of a deep, deep blue. Melancholy waves washed over every surface, bathing the foyer in midnight-blue, mournful depression. Smooth stairs ascended to a landing beneath the single, solemn rose, then diverged into two separate flights that finished the trek from the foyer to the second floor.

The second thing Riven noticed was the chandelier. From the great, golden ornament, wine-colored petals the same hue as the streak running through the fencer's locks spawned from nowhere, lethargically spinning and flickering through the air on their unavoidable collision with the floor. Riven extended a hand, intercepting the ominous journey from sky to ground, and a blossom gently touched down on the crease of her palm. The somber thing lay there for the briefest of moments before fading from existence, disappearing into nothingness. Riven looked to the rug of the foyer, noticing that the other petals followed suit.

Fiora, undeterred by the supernatural precipitation, strutted through the curtain, calling back, "Ammdar, show ze guest to her room."

"As you wish," he sighed. As the duelist mounted the stairs, the man instructed, "Follow."

Hostless suits of plate armor standing motionless at attention grasping maces, swords, and pikes passed by the two as the man lead the woman to her room. Paintings of the former residents of the mansion stared at Riven, their faces devoid of all emotion, their postures unnaturally straight. Staff dressed in black and white tended to various chores, some dusting the overly-complex frames of the pictures, while others polished the flawless stone floor with rags and buckets.

Ammdar halted before the doorway of Riven's room. "Zis will be your quarters for ze night," he said, sweeping an outstretched arm to the doorway.

Riven nodded and entered. The room looked no different than any other, with a queen-sized bed covered with rich cloth sporting fancy designs, a nightstand with a bedside lamp, a desk with the proper stationary, and several dressers, the knobs of which resembled- you guessed it- a rose.

"I will have your zings brought to your room immediately. Is zere anzing else the lady requires?" the man asked.

She turned to face him fully, fixing him with an exasperated glare, "Why am I here?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "You do not know?"

"No, I like asking dumb questions." She inhaled deeply, calming herself before saying, "Sorry. Yesterday was a clusterfuck, and then in the middle of my hearing today, a mysterious woman with mysterious intentions intrudes, buys my freedom, and doesn't tell me why. I'm frustrated and confused."

"I doubt ze answer you desire will ease your mind," he replied gravely.

"I don't care. Just tell me, please."

He dropped his head, sighing, before stepping into her doorway. She crossed her arms and stared him in the eye. He looked back up at her and asked, "Do you know who Mademoiselle Fiora is?"

"The Grand Duelist. She's undefeated, as far as I know. They say she's the best with a blade there is and ever was."

He nodded slowly. "So you do know of Mademoiselle Fiora. And zat is correct, all zat have challenged her have perished. So many, in fact, zat she has run out of 'worzy opponents'." Riven nodded; she could respect Fiora's skill, if nothing else.

He continued, "You see, somezing… happened, and in a hopeless attempt to wash away the mistake in blood, she fights and fights-," Riven could tell this was his personal opinion, "- She fought so much zat she is doubtless ze best swordswoman zere is in Demacia, perhaps all of Valoran. Who knows?"

Ammdar paused. He was nearing the conclusion, Riven guessed. "Needless to say, she is zirsty for a real challenger, and jumps at every chance zat falls into her hands. So far, she has slain zirty men and women. Fourteen from ze glorious Demacia herself, seven from Noxus, zree from ze Blue Flames Islands, two from ze Shurima desert, two from ze icy Freljord, one from ze Shadow Isles, and one particularly feisty gentleman from Piltover."

"That's quite a body count," Riven commented.

"It is. She has made it a point to defeat ze greatest swordsman from each province. She has been successful thus far, save a single province. One zat happens to be warring wiz our friendly neighbors at the moment."

"Ionia," Riven finished. This day just got better and better.

"You must imagine her excitement when she hears of ze arrest of the mythical Master Yi of Ionia, who killed 26 of Demacia's best fighters- ze nobles are all practitioners of ze blade in some form or another- wiz her bare hands." He stopped there; he could tell he'd said plenty.

After a few moments of quiet contemplation, never once breaking eye contact, she said flatly, "So Fiora saved me from the gallows by paying 65,000 crowns just to have the pleasure of killing me herself? Simply because I'm Ionian?"

"Yes." His reply was as blunt as hers. "I imagine ze despicable nature of your deed was ze final factor in your 'freedom'. It is much easier to justify the burying of ze blade in a murderous psycopaz zan it is for a renowned hero."

"You do know I'm not Ionian, right? I thought my skin color gave that away."

"Yes. But ze fact of ze matter is zat you are the champion of Ionia, and in her misguided eyes, zat is good enough for her," he sighed. "If that is all…?"

"Yes, that's all. Thank you," she told him before falling to the sheets of her bed. Riven heard his muffled footsteps stop several feet from her doorway. When he didn't resume, Riven called out, "Yes?"

He turned the corner, mild surprise painted on his face. "What?" he feebly asked.

"You obviously want to say something, so say it." She laughed sardonically, "I'm to die tomorrow anyways, so if it's private, it's safe with me whether I like it or not."

Ammdar still hesitated, but coaxed himself into wearily asking, "If you don't mind, mademoiselle, why, exactly, did you …kill zem?"

She looked him directly in the eyes again, and asked a question herself, "Demacians aren't the most accepting people in the world, are they?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, confused.

Riven redirected her gaze to the ceiling again and closed her eyes. "If I told you I prefer women, what would you say?"

He chortled. "I would say zat it is not of my concern who you decide to bed."

"As it shouldn't."

"Not everyone zinks zis way, zough. Many are stuck in ze past, so worried about tradition and following in our ancestors' footseps zat zey refuse to accept zat, perhaps, zey were wrong."

Riven huffed. "I ran into a pack of them. I think you call them 'nobles'."

Ammdar chuckled. "I swear upon my life, not all of us are like zat."

"These weren't." Riven pinched the bridge of her nose, the memory of dead Carla still fresh on her mind.

"And zat is why you killed zem?" he questioned cautiously.

"No. I'm not that callous." He waited patiently for her answer as she tried to explain her reason for the massacre. "They were, though. I was going to try to reason with them, but arguing points of view with radicals is impossible."

He chuckled again.

"They killed my partner."

He stopped chuckling. "Oh, my apologies, I did not mean-."

"-I know what you meant, it's alright," she interjected. She sat up now, opting to count the number of diamonds in the lavish rug below them.

After a few uncomfortable moments of silence, he asked, "Were you… close?"

"No. We spontaneously hooked up for the night; honestly I was more interested in finding a place to sleep than I was finding someone to sleep with." She vigorously rubbed her eyes as she said, "But I was with her long enough to know she didn't deserve to have her skull caved in with a fucking bag over her head by some moneybag fuckwad with too much fucking-." She paused her tirade when her blood began to boil and exhaled loudly. "Sorry, it just pisses me off that the 'beacon of hope for humanity' can't figure out that hate only breeds hate."

It was obvious Ammdar didn't know what to say.

Riven looked up at him, an amused twinkle in her eyes as she sarcastically asked, "I don't suppose Fiora would take pity on me and set me free?"

He didn't answer.

Riven nodded. "Didn't think so." Then, "Can I ask you a question?"

More surprise, but he answered, "I suppose it is only fair."

"What are you?" Ammdar appeared confused, and Riven elaborated, "You're too nicely dressed to be a butler, and you don't carry that air of servitude that all possess. But you wait on Fiora on hand and foot. I can't figure out what you are."

"Ah. I suppose I can understand your confusion. Ammdar Laurent, second oldest son of ze late Monsieur Laurent. As for ze babying, well…" he looked skeptically at Riven, then completed, "I fear ze paz she travels down is a lonely and dangerous one. I feel zat if I do not watch her every move, I will lose her completely."

"So you're her brother. Thank you. I don't need anything else now."

"Then I shall leave you to your own devices. Supper will be served at 7:00 PM sharp. Have a wonderful evening." He left her to her thoughts soon after.

ooooo

"No, I will not cancel tomorrow's match," Fiora haughtily informed her brother, stalking past him towards her personal bathroom connected the master bedroom where they quarreled.

Ammdar shook his head, desperately trying to convince his younger sibling otherwise. "Fiora, dammit, listen to me! If you go zrough wiz zis, you will be no better a person zan you zink her to be!"

She whirled, angrily spitting back, "Oh, and why is zat, Ammdar?"

"You know perfectly well why! I just told you!" he cried.

"And you know zis how, _hmmm_? I suppose she told you zis, yes?" she inquired mockingly.

Ammdar had no retort; he knew exactly how ludicrous it sounded.

"Zat is what I zought," she straightened triumphantly. But Fiora wasn't done just yet. "Do you even know what crime she is convicted of? Twenty-six counts of murder. _Twenty-six_ , Ammdar! Do really zink someone like zat would tell ze truz?!"

Ammdar had considered that possibility, but the delivery of Yi's story, the sorrowful pang in her eyes, the exhausted slump of her shoulders was all too real to be fake. No, Yi definitely spoke the truth. It was all the more reason to fight for the swordswoman's actual freedom.

"No, I do not." She gave a smirk as if she'd won the argument. But then he added, "But she is not lying," and she lost it again.

After an extended period of shouting, Fiora screamed, " _ZAT IS ENOUGH!_ AT DAWN TOMORROW, WE WILL DUEL TO ZE DEATH, WHEZER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT!"

He shook his head, appalled at her decision. Disgust dripped from his voice as he painfully denounced, "Zen if zat is ze case," his voice cracked, "I cannot share ze name of a murderer." Fiora's face fell, all rage washed away with panic as he said, "I secede from House Laurent."

"W-what? You cannot-!" Fiora stumbled over her words.

"Yes, I can." His tone was shaky, but resolute in its decisiveness.

As he turned to leave, she furiously lashed out with, "You cannot leave me! After all I have done-!"

He turned back and stopped, his heart heavy as he bitterly jabbed, "And what _have_ you done, Fiora? What have you _ever_ done for zis house zat was not cleaning up your own mess?" Rage began to seep into his tone as he demanded, "What about me, Fiora? What about ze time _I_ spent trying to keep you from tearing zis family apart? Now you tell me, Fiora," he pointed to himself, "Why should I stay? What benefit do I gain from falling wiz you?"

Her mouth hung open, unable to respond. It was all true, and Ammdar knew it. It was agony admitting it, but in the end, Fiora was the root of the family's woes.

When she didn't reply, he continued, "Zis is ze final straw. I have stuck my neck out for you much too often; it is time _you_ feel ze consequences for your own actions." He turned to leave again. "If you are going through wiz ze murder of an innocent woman, I will not be associated wiz you any longer." He walked toward the door.

The dismay and dread in her voice as she feebly cried, "Wait," then louder a second time when that didn't work, " _Wait!_ "

She grabbed his shoulder. He angled his head so they could stare into each other's watery eyes and muttered, "Goodbye."

And with that, Ammdar was gone.

Fiora listened to his footsteps as they traipsed the rug, the pitter-patter as he descended the stairs, and eventually, the opening and subsequent slamming of the front door. Only when she was sure he was gone did she collapse to the floor, whimpering, "Ammdar…" through her hands that cradled her bowed, convulsing head. Tears rolled down sharp cheekbones as Fiora realized that for the first time, she was finally, truly alone.

From her room a good distance away, Riven overheard the heated exchange, but when the echoing sobs reached her, she remained unmoved. It was pretty difficult feeling sorry for the person who was supposed to kill her.

ooooo

Riven was informed by one of the maids that she was to die- she'd used "duel" but both knew the connotation- in the Hall of Blades. She discovered this to be a fancy name for "foyer", and after shaking off the last remnants of sleep, she navigated the maze of halls for a decent amount of time before she found her way to the place where so many had bled to death for the sake of honor.

She arrived, and was met with the sight of an appalling amount of spectators. Morbid curiosity or a wish to see legends clash had brought them here, and the men and women of various social classes crowded the balconies, and Riven questioned how the balusters could support so much weight. So many had shown up to witness the blood sport that not all of them could fit in the spacious Hall, and those that had arrived late streamed from the main doorway. Everywhere was crammed with warm bodies, everywhere except the blue, padded rug acting as the arena. No one _dared_ to set foot on that sacred rug.

Riven stood on that rug, left hand clutching the hilt of her weapon, surveying the area for her opponent. She couldn't find her among the crowd, but she did find Ammdar standing front and center. She started toward him, but before she could come within a distance fit for conversation, All whispering and mumbling ceased, and Riven spied the cause descending the stairs.

Though The Grand Duelist stood tall and emotionless, the red rings around her eyes betrayed what she was really feeling. It was quiet as death in the Hall of Blades, so quiet that the click-clack of her soles on the stone stairway reverberated for all to hear. Her footsteps disappeared as they hit the carpet of the landing.

The two stood facing each other, not even ten feet away. Their eyes canned the other, trying to detect flaws and weaknesses, but neither could find any.

Fiora failed to mask the acid in her tone as she scathed, "Prepare to die." She drew her weapon.

"Right after you," Riven quipped not a moment too soon or too late. Riven tugged at the hilt, freeing the blade from its sheath and revealing itself to the audience. Their reaction was exactly as Riven expected: confusion, awe, and jests.

More quiet as cool, crimson pools scanned sky-blue, resentful ones. Someone was going to die, that was for certain.

Neither duelists' eyes left the other pair as the referee stepped forth.

"En garde!"

Fiora left hand traveled to rest the forearm flush against the small of her back, her legs separating, and she twisted her body so her shoulder alignment was perpendicular to Riven's.

Riven didn't budge. There was no reason to; her style of bladework didn't possess any pre-programmed guards.

"Prệt!"

The bluesteel rapier sprouting from the center of the engraved bell guard raised to point at the ashen-haired woman's chest.

Still, Riven did not move; she was always ready to fight.

The air was tense as all parties present waited for that command that would begin the end.

"Allez!"

Fiora began a lazy circle around her stationary opponent, deliberately stepping foot over foot.

Riven stood still, not even shifting her head to maintain a visual. A whoosh of air on her back told her of a blade thrusting toward her heart from behind. She waited until she could feel the vibration of the blade until she acted. When she detected that odd tingling sensation on her skin, she spun, pivoting on her left foot until her shoulder alignment was perpendicular to Fiora's, twisting just far enough for the blade to miss by millimeters. Simultaneously, she reached out with her left hand, placing her palm firmly against the bosom of her attacker and stepping into Fiora. The raven-haired woman could do nothing; she was mid lunge and unable to shift her momentum as Riven heaved the other woman in the opposite direction, sending her opponent tumbling backwards.

Fiora gracefully raised from the unplanned somersault into a kneeling position, looking back up to see that Riven had finished her rotation and stood facing her. She still did not move.

Fiora advanced cautiously- Riven had proved that she possessed no single weak point in her guard. The ashen-haired woman rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck, but said nothing. The Grand Duelist resumed the predatory stalking, but Riven noticed the smallest amount of confidence missing in her stride.

The fencer completed ¾ of a circle clockwise, ending up directly to Riven's left before she struck again, this time targeting the platinum-blonde's left wrist, likely to slice open that artery below the palm, causing her to slowly bleed out. The Noxian exile pirouetted away, and when Fiora tried to redouble by wind-milling the blade above her head to strike at neck-height, Riven blocked the move, gliding her enchanted steel down the other woman's blade, trapping the weapons now bound at the hilt down below the waist so Riven could firmly grip Fiora's neck with her left hand.

She could have ended it there and then. The thumb would press the bottom of the jawbone up and over while her fingers squeezed from the left. Eventually, the head would not be able to contort any further without the neck breaking, and with a little brute strength, just that would happen; the torque would shatter the spine, and Fiora would die instantly. But now that Riven had the woman by the throat literally and figuratively, she suddenly found herself unwilling to kill her aggressor.

Instead of finishing the fight, Riven stared coldly into Fiora's eyes, and for the first time allowed emotion to invade her carmine irises, communicating how dire the duelist's situation was. Her opponent receive the message with wide eyes, understanding with perfect clarity that her life rested entirely in Riven's hand(s). The moment lasted not half a second, too short for the bystanders to notice but just long enough of a pause for the masters to wordlessly converse.

Without warning, Riven pulled her towards the blonde, dodging to the right. She let her left foot drag behind, and as Fiora hurtled past, she tripped and awkwardly stumbled, catching herself just before she wiped out. She pivoted, weapon rising once more.

The exile sighed. The impossibly optimistic part of her had hoped that Riven's act of mercy would inspire the fencer to surrender, and she cursed herself for allowing the ungrateful woman to live.

Fiora struck thrice more, one to jab her abdomen, one to redouble on the last in the form a slice to the inside of her right thigh, and the final preceded by a feint to her neck with the real strike stabbing at her abdomen for a second time. Riven parried all three without falling for the feint.

The platinum-blonde now possessed a satisfactory wealth of knowledge on her opponent's weaknesses and talents. Fiora was speedy, but lacked the strength to provide any real power to her attacks. To make up for it, she targeted soft areas where great force was not needed to do serious damage. She performed perfect lunges and her thrusts held uncanny accuracy and precision. Slashing attacks were attempted rarely and only when viable, but Riven couldn't discern any inadequacy in her technique. The Grand Duelist mostly elected to dodge rather than parry, but when she did parry, it was executed quickly with the minimal amount of energy expended and with a hasty riposte following.

In short, Fiora was fencer. This, Riven already knew, but as she observed the motion of the other woman's body as they fought, Riven noticed a distinct pattern.

Riven possessed all she needed: she was completely certain she could win the battle as long as she gave the duelist no room to breathe.

 _Inhale_

The exile closed her eyes as she mentally transitioned from complete defense to complete offense.

 _Exhale_

She crossed the distance almost instantaneously, managing to surprise the other woman.

Fiora sidestepped, and sent a sweeping strike aimed at the other woman's throat, but Riven pirouetted at the last second, sweeping her own weapon around to come crashing into the slimmer of the two. It was a miracle Fiora didn't lose her weapon as it was violently swatted to the side.

Riven followed up with two horizontal strikes from opposing directions, both connecting just above the brow of her opponent. The wounds were shallow, but their utility came in the shower of blood that curtained over the other woman's eyes. It was dirty as hell, but Riven didn't really care at the moment.

She knocked the blind jab at her torso to the side, ducking as it rounded back to desperately swipe at her head and slashed a third time at Fiora's face. The blonde grasped onto the tight shirt stained red and threw her like a rag doll away from the retreating wall of people.

Fiora recovered very slowly, so slowly that Riven had time to casually stroll up to the woman whose face openly displayed bewilderment and shock.

' _Come on, come on…_ ' Riven pleaded to no one in particular. If Fiora acted as predicted, it was all over.

' _There it is,_ ' Riven recognized, referring to the random jab at her torso the duelist tended to perform when cornered or stunned. The point was currently on route to bury itself into the flesh beneath Riven's left breast.

In one smooth, cohesive motion, Riven shifted slightly to the right, raising her left arm to allow a comfortable space as the expanse of blue, shimmering steel sailed inches below her armpit. She stepped forward into the thrust, clamping her left triceps around the blade and snaking her forearm under and inside, her left hand grasping Fiora's right bicep with animal strength. Her left foot planted itself behind the right ankle of her opponent, prepared to trip the woman if she tried to escape. Completing the move, Riven's Runic Windblade hovered over Fiora's heart, the duelist's hand locked on Riven's right wrist in a frantic attempt to keep the weapon from impaling her. It wouldn't work anyways, and Riven made her point by carving a skin-deep crevice into the tight upper-body suit The Grand Duelist wore, sending small drips of blood running down her stomach.

Riven's grip on the duelist was made of iron; no matter how much she wiggled and wormed, she couldn't release herself, and as her efforts increased, so too did the depth at which the blade to her chest dove, raining more red, agonizing droplets into the blue carpet. The ashen-haired warrior waited for the duelist to realize the futility of her actions, their eyes meeting in an intense, two-way glare.

Fiora stilled, and Riven could see the reluctance to give in still present, so she intensified the pressure on her weapon until it disappeared. Now there was only fear.

"Yield," Riven snarled, startling the woman.

"Wha-Wha-?" Fiora spluttered. Murmurs arose from the crowd.

Riven lost her patience. She'd given the woman so many opportunities to concede, but still she insisted on fighting when she was so obviously outclassed.

Faster than the blink of an eye, she retracted the blade, twirled the sharp edge to rest in the opposite position and used the handle as makeshift brass knuckles to slam the hilt into Fiora's ribcage. Winded and focused solely on breathing, Riven felt Fiora's grasp of the handle of her rapier weaken, and she took advantage of the lapse in concentration. She manipulated her arm, and the duelist yelped as her wrist was bent in a direction it shouldn't and moments later, the weapon slipped from her fingers. Riven stepped backward, swiveling the rapier so she held a blade in both hands.

Then, the exile struck whipped the tip of the bluesteel sword, catching the inside of the duelist's left calf with the sharp retort. As she fell to one knee, Riven kicked the other shin so Fiora knelt in front of her, with her arms hanging uselessly to her sides. The cutting edge of the Windblade indented itself into Fiora's throat while the rapier point threatened to run her through.

It was over. If Fiora even fidgeted, her jugular would cascade blood through the nasty tear in her neck while her heart would be pierced by the family blade.

"Yield," Riven repeated.

Fiora did not say anything. She could barely see through the crusted layer of blood covering her eyes.

Riven dug both blades deeper, slightly sliding her fragmented sword to create the faintest of red lines, and demanded, "Yield, dammit! Do you _want_ to die?"

Fiora simply glared. "Finish it."

Riven was bewildered this time. "What?"

"Do not make me say it again," she ground out through gritted teeth.

A familiar voice mumbled, "It is too ze deaz."

Riven turned to find Ammdar standing several feet away. "What?"

He stared at Fiora, softly repeating, "It is too ze deaz. A surrender would ruin the family name." His gaze steadily shifted to Riven. "Finish it."

A cold chill enveloped the victorious woman as she processed his request. Her own family would rather her dead than alive for fear of the shame her survival would cast on House Laurent. It was here that Riven truly understood the evils of honor Yi had warned her of. He was right. Not that that was a surprise.

Riven returned to staring at the panting woman below her. She shook her head in disgust.

"No." she retracted both blades and stood tall. "No," she repeated, "No, I will not kill you." She looked up to referee. "I will not kill her." The crowd began to mumble, and shocked gossip reached Riven's keen ear.

"Then you shame the name Laurent by refusing your opponent death," the ref replied, wordlessly urging her to change her mind.

Then Riven had an epiphany.

She stared down at the pitiful woman before her. She sheathed her Runic Windblade.

"I surrender." Fiora looked up at her, confused.

The crowd erupted into an angry hubbub, demanding that Riven change her mind.

Riven stabbed the rapier into the padding inches before Fiora's knees, the blade wobbling comically before settling. Fiora just stared at the steel in front of her face as if it was the oddest thing she'd ever seen.

The platinum-blonde scathingly remarked, "Because you value honor more than your own soul, I figured you might want your family's keepsake."

But Fiora just kept staring slack-jawed, seemingly unable to comprehend what the thing before her eyes was.

Riven pivoted and waded through the mob of furious men and women to the dining room. Some tried to follow. They found themselves on the floor shortly after.

She would stock up on food and ditch the city for good. She needed to get out this damned city, and fast.


	16. Chapter 16- Sword Lessons

**Two updates! Woohoo! The same obligatory "uploaded that last chapter at 3:00 AM" applies to the last one as well, so there might be mistakes and stuff. I'll get around to it. Anyways I'm noticing a startling lack of reviews! Please,** ** _please_** **,** ** _PLEASE_** **, tell me what I'm doing wrong or right or whatever. I need feedback if I'm going to make this story a good one, so write a comment if you could! Enjoy!**

Her travel sack stuffed full with loaves of rye, salty strips of jerky, and tasteless bags of granola, Riven's perceptive eyes inspected the kitchen for any doors or means of escape. There were none in this room, and she turned tail to quickly leave the dining area and find a window through which she could hop through; despite the city guard struggling to tame the seething mass of people in the Hall of Blades, the spectators continued their angry assault and forced Riven to discover another way.

She paused as she exited the room, shut her eyelids, and centered her attention on the cooling atmosphere around her. A gentle breeze from the right alerted her to an open window down the way.

Footsteps from the other direction. Their footfalls were fast and light with steady breathing to match- a very fit male.

Riven drew her weapon, holding the blade in a reverse grip as one would hold a dagger, and compressed herself into the doorframe of the room on the opposite side. Whoever they were, they were muttering something, searching each room but not finding what they were looking for.

Riven snatched the vase from the table a few feet away and strategically tossed it into the opposite corner. The man fell for the ploy, and almost sprinted toward the clatter.

As he rounded the corner, Riven's left palm firmly clasped over the intruder's mouth, preventing any screams for help and throwing the man against the wall, simultaneously pressing her considerable body weight and crushing the edge of shattered cursed steel against his Adam's apple.

She glared into the stark hazel eyes of Ammdar, and even though she recognized the trespasser she did not release her vice-grip over his muzzle.

"Have you come to rat me out to the guard?" she growled.

Her hand retracted to grab a handful of his expensive blazer to keep him from squirming from her grasp. He made no such effort, simply gasping, "Of course not!"

Riven scrutinized his posture, his flinching, and his body language to determine that the man spoke the truth. Cautiously, she liberated him from her grasp and backpedaled to give the man reasonable space. He fidgeted and palmed his jugular with a pained expression, fidgeting from the adrenaline rush that near-death experiences typically doled out.

"Then why are you here?" the warrior demanded.

"Do not leave!" he wheezed, adding "Please!"

Riven was confused. "I just publicly shamed the head of House Laurent. Why the Hell would you want me to stay?"

He gathered himself and his thoughts, standing straighter with an excited gleam in his eye as he said, "Do you not understand? She has finally found a worzy opponent!"

"And…?" the platinum-blonde requested.

"Well what would you do if you encountered your superior?" he asked as if the answer was obvious.

"I certainly wouldn't challenge them to a duel to the death," she replied.

"Fair point," he conceded. "But you tarnished your reputation to spare her life. In fact," he seemed to reach some sort of greater insight, "I believe Mademoiselle Fiora is now in debt to Mademoiselle Yi."

This was intriguing, but Riven disliked holding obligations over other people as much as she despised being a debtor herself. "I don't need her gratitude." She was going to leave at that, but a though occurred. "Wait a minute. So I show her up for the whole world to see and she decides that she owes me something so I should stay?"

Ammdar rubbed at the nape of his neck as he uneasily explained, "Well… not exactly."

"What does that mean?" she asked, suspicion lilting her question.

"Mademoiselle… may not have directly instructed me to fetch you," he admitted.

Riven narrowed her eyes. "So _you_ are the one who wants me to stay, and not necessarily her? In other words, she could hate my guts but you still want me to stay because 'she owes me'?"

He hesitated, but answered, "Yes." When she rolled her eyes and pushed past him, he added, "No, wait! Please!"

Ammdar ran to catch up, placing a hand on Riven's shoulder. Out of habit, she nearly dropped the man but restrained her battle reflexes to turn and glare at him.

He was very desperate. "Just hear me out!"

She sighed. She supposed she could at least listen to his pleading. After all, he did defend her life the previous night. "Alright. Spill it."

He seemed pleased at her cooperation and spared no time telling her exactly what he thought. "Mademoiselle, you will have to trust me when I say zat Fiora was not always zis unsympatzetic."

"Oh, really?" she jested.

He ignored the comment, saying, "Have you heard what has become of ze late Head of House Laurent?"

"No, I can't say I have. Enlighten me."

He nodded. "Fiora: she was always a stubborn child. She did what she wanted, and once she made a decision, zere was not a force in Runeterra that could persuade her ozerwise."

"I know the type," Riven remarked. Noxus was the land of the stubborn and iron will, and she herself had inherited the near-unmovable conviction Ammdar spoke of.

A faint smile seized his lips as he basked in memories of happier times. "Yes. One day, when she was a simple tyke, she caught me performing zrusts and lunges one day in ze estate training grounds. The Laurents, if you did not know, possess an ancestry of the greatest duelists in history, and because of _tradition_ -," he said the word as if he'd whiffed rotten eggs, "I was forced to take up ze blade and defend ze title. However, little Fiora decided she was ze next legend, and from zat day on I was her mentor. She was always so eager…" he drifted off wistfully.

"Ahem," Riven coughed.

"Ah yes, my apologies. Anyways. Mama and Papa zought differently, but not matter how many dolls or dresses zey gave young Fiora, she would not budge. It was cute. At first." He inhaled; something was about to go south.

"But zen came ze day where Fiora grew up. She was no longer ze tiny toddler wiz an interest in ze blade, but a woman ready to marry. Fiora did not like zis. Fiora did not like zis at all."

"You see, in Demacia, marriages are arranged by ze fazers of ze bride and groom, so Fiora had no say. My little sibling was not so little anymore: she openly despised our Papa's marital plans, afraid of losing her independence. This would be fine, except zat when ze day came for bride and groom to become spouses, she defied ze arrangement in front of the noblest houses in Demacia. Fiora stated that she 'would razer die than be dishonored in being maneuvered by someone else's will', if I remember correctly."

Riven actually flinched. "That can't have gone over well."

"It did not. We were disgraced, our family name ruined. House Crownguard challenged House Laurent in a duel to ze deaz to wipe away ze insult. Of course, Mademoiselle Fiora stepped forth, but according to Demacian Law, it was Papa's duty to accept." His tone darkened.

"Papa was very good, but his opponent from House Crownguard- Garen, I believe? He so hopelessly outclassed Monsieur Laurent. We all knew Papa would perish, even Papa. So he cheated. He snuck into ze opponent's room at ze dark of night and tried to poison him, but he was caught."

Ammdar exhaled, and hung his head. "Twice in ze same week we were disgraced. Papa was to be publicly executed for his crimes. Ze scandal destroyed what little honor we had left. All seemed lost."

His head raised and he stared at her with deep, soulful eyes. "But after scouring ze library, Fiora discovered an old copy of Demacian Law. On its yellowed pages detailed a a long forgotten way in which a family fallen from grace can reobtain its glory."

"Let me guess: someone dies, right?" Riven predicted. He didn't answer immediately, and Riven reacted with, "Of course that's what happens."

Ammdar continued, "Yes. Ze offender in ze family must be slain by anozer member. Only zen can ze family rise to nobility. Fiora," he shook his head, "she elected herself to commit ze act of honor. Fazer and daughter were to fight on ze eve of ze following day. We gave our goodbyes to boz, witnessed ze duel from ze stands and, well…" he trailed off. "Fiora obviously still lives."

They were both silent for a long time. Then, Ammdar continued, "And since zat day, Fiora has fought tooth and nail to restore our reputation among the honorable. Each week is a new contenestant, someone zat insulted House Laurent-," he motioned toward the exile, "or a convicted felon wiz enough renown to catch her attention. She has not been ze same since. She is cold and unfeeling, obsessed only wiz redemption."

His tone turned to excitement, and the man became animated. "But just now, during your waltz of blades, I could see ze spark of ze old Fiora as you clashed. I zink battling someone better zan her has drawn out what she used to be."

The story finally synched with the man's earlier request for her to stay, but it was still off. "I see."

"You do?" he asked hopefully.

"So she's sad because she murdered her father because she holds honor in higher respect than the life and love of family." Ammdar seemed shocked at her pessimistic interpretation of the tale of House Laurent. "Yeah, I think I'll pass."

Riven brushed past a stammering Ammdar, striding purposefully to that open window from before.

"Wait!" he cried.

No response.

"Wait!"

Still the warrior walked without falter, nearing her destination.

She heard him mumble under his breath, ' _Damn you, Fiora!_ ' Then, "I WILL HIRE YOU!"

Riven was curious now. She rotated dramatically. "What for?"

"Sword lessons for ze Mademoiselle," he huffed, jogging to her position again.

"You really are desperate, aren't you?" Riven commented.

"I may zink some of her choices foolish, but she is my sister. I will go to great lengz to help her heal. Tell me you would not do ze same."

"I suppose," she confessed. Riven mulled her options over considering her willingness to work with someone as arrogant as Fiora versus the dough she would earn for her troubles. "What are you willing to pay?"

Ammdar pondered for a brief moment, trying to conceive a price that would entice the warrior to stay but not bankrupt House Laurent; clearly his offer was last-ditch effort to save his sibling from herself. It was kind of cute, how much he cared for his sister's wellbeing.

"200 crowns per lesson," he concluded.

"Double that with a room, dining, and free access to the city and I'll do it."

He seemed to try to negotiate, but he noticed her unshakable resolve in her tall figure and equally tall attitude and submitted to her fees. "Zat is acceptable. When is ze first lesson, Monsieur Yi?"

"How is Fiora doing now?"

"I do not know. Ze last I saw of her, she still knelt, staring at zat infernal blade as if she had never seen it before."

"Where is your training arena?"

"Down zat hall," he pointed towards a hall branching off to the right directly behind her, "Zen to ze left as you approach ze junction. At ze end of zat hall is a doorway. Exit and follow ze paz to ze arena. I will go ready Mademoiselle Fiora."

"Thank you." They nodded in acknowledgment, then turned to leave in opposite directions. Riven was content: she had a job and a room to sleep in afterwards, which was more than she usually had available.

She just hoped Fiora would take to this deal better than she did to marriage.

ooooo

The sigh of the trees was the only detectable sound as Riven lay on the surprisingly-comfortable mat of the outdoor arena. The wind disturbed a short, platinum shock of hair, the dancing strands tickling the woman's closed eyelids and nose. Her hands converged below her breast, steadily rising and falling with her even and measured breathing as her ankles interlocked and sat motionless. She rested beneath a cloudless sky, waiting patiently for the imminent arrival of her student. It felt so weird to play the role of the master instead of the apprentice, but she felt up for the task at hand.

' _Fiora should arrive soon_ ,' the warrior surmised. Shortly after Riven's discovery of the training grounds, a fierce clash of principles could be heard from anywhere throughout the estate; Fiora had not appreciated Ammdar's act of good will. The relaxing exile had heard it all, including one of the spicier instances where Fiora had thrown something of porcelain, but fortunately for the older sibling she was not nearly as good a shot as she was with a blade. Ammdar stood firm in his beliefs, achieving the impossible by convincing a skeptical Fiora to go and learn from the master. However, Fiora had not specified exactly when, and Riven was left to entertain herself for a few hours.

The clopping of heels on stone paired with a sweet, flowery perfume revealed The Grand Duelist's position from far away. Riven tapped her finger in rhythm of the woman's footsteps, smelled her essence before it overpowered her. Riven languidly opened her eyes only to be met with shrewd irises of the same blue sharpness as the blade at the standing woman's hip. There was not a scratch on her; clearly magic of some sort. She wore the same, white outfit, also either new or sutured with some arcane force.

A single eyebrow quirked upward as the duelist asked, "I believe my brozer has hired you to teach me your ways?"

"I believe that's true."

"Well?" Fiora crossed her arms. "Are you going to?"

"Am I going to what?" her eyelids closed again.

"Teach me your ways?" she informed, confusion joining the Demacian accent.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean 'I do not know'? My brozer hired you, did he not?"

"Yes, he did indeed hire me."

"Zen teach me!"

Those crimson eyes reappeared again. "I don't know if you're worthy."

"Wha-? Do you know who I am?!" she angrily demanded.

Riven pointed to the woman, saying, "See, this is really convincing me otherwise." She listlessly rose to her feet, fixing the other woman with her gaze. "And yes, Fiora, I know exactly who you are."

"Why would I not be worzy?" she seemed really hung up on that fact. Was her ego bruised? Riven didn't know.

Riven held up her fingers on her left hand, retracting one by one as she listed, "Let's see. You're proud, you have no respect for your brother, you _had_ no respect for your father-."

" _You will not talk of my fazer_ ," she seethed.

"I'll talk as I please."

" _No you will not_ ," she unholstered the beautiful rapier and pointed the tip at Riven's throat, "unless you wish to part wiz your tongue!"

Riven's hand flew to the hilt, and fluidly drew the weapon, using the direction and momentum of the action to bat the tip elsewhere. With nothing objecting to her closing the distance, she stepped in, repositioned her leg so her foot invaded Fiora's abdomen, and pushed the other woman unceremoniously onto her rump.

The duelist scrambled to her feet, and Riven kept counting, "You believe the name is more important than the person."

Fiora lunged, and Riven simply sidestepped diagonally to the right, sending her left knee into Fiora's solar plexus. The duelist curled in on herself, and Riven tapped the point of her blade to Fiora's exposed left armpit, indicating, "Dead" before throwing her away again.

"You're angry-,"

The duelist redoubled with a twirling sweep to her neck, and Riven easily ducked, tapped Fiora's chest- "Dead"- and struck her with her elbow. The duelist stumbled away, barely catching herself. However, the action took far too long and too much concentration, and Riven seized the opportunity. One downward diagonal strike from the top right- "Dead"-, then the same from the left- "Dead".

"- you're disillusioned-,"

She grasped the stun-locked Fiora by the back of the neck, forcing her head down into a one-handed clinch and jabbed three times up and into her torso, careful to not actually stab her victim- "Very dead". Fiora recovered, shoving Riven away and reassuming her stance, panting all the while.

"- and you're merciless with no respect for the gift of life."

Fiora performed a series of jabs, feints, and slashes, all of which Riven parried, ignored, or blocked. Then she thrust again. Using the back of her palm she swatted the rapier by the flat of the blade, right knee elevating to collide with Fiora's lowered face. The wet crunch resulting from the move and the shriek of pain from the receiver relayed that her nose had been crushed.

"But you wanna know the worst part, Fiora?"

The woman in question was dazed, barely managing to keep her weapon raised. As Riven approached, Fiora staggered away.

"You wanna know the main reason why I think you're incapable?"

The exile was apparently too close for comfort, and Fiora committed to another random jab. Riven released the hilt of her fragmented sword to let it fall to the mat, catching the rapier by the foible, and whipping the knuckles of her left fist into the top of Fiora's wrist joint. The suddenness of the move startled the other woman, and the length of steel was ripped from Fiora's hand.

Riven reared back, established eye contact with wide saucers, and socked the other woman in the face. The force knocked her flat on her ass, and she swayed back and forth, threatening to pass out.

The platinum-blonde knelt and waited for The Grand Duelist to look at her. Those stark, watery blue irises once again found their crimson counterpart, and Riven continued.

"You have no respect for yourself." No response. Riven understood that she was correct. "I know what happened with your father, Fiora. I know you blame yourself for his death, that it eats away at your soul every second of your existence." There was a familiar flicker in her eyes. "I know how it feels; I've felt it before."

Even now, Riven could describe in detail how Hana's body had fallen, how the decapitation had not been clean, how those big, sad orbs had stared into her. She remembered the grave she'd dug by the ocean, and she remembered the words she inscribed upon the marker. She remembered the agony that plagued her conscience every moment of every day until she met the blind monk. No one, absolutely _no one_ deserved that torture.

Riven's gaze softened. "I'm here to tell you that path you follow, that trail filled with bodies of those who spit on your name leads nowhere." Riven shook her head slowly. "Blood doesn't wash away blood. I've tried."

Fiora stared into the distance somewhere behind her. There was silence. Riven studied the duelist's face, noting every crest and ridge.

Fiora regained eye contact, her own watery, and asked in a shaky voice, "Do you know what my Papa said to me ze day before zee duel?"

Riven shook her head.

"'I do not want to die'," she repeated his words gradually. "And yet, when ze time came, I still buried my blade into his heart."

The teary-eyed duelist tilted her head. In a voice condescending to herself, she asked "You tell me, what kind of daughter could kill her Papa after hearing zat, hmmm?"

Riven had no answer.

"Zat is what I zought," she almost whispered, and hung her head.

On a whim, Riven reached out and lifted Fiora's head gently by her chin. She looked at her tear-streaked cheeks, then her petite nose, and finally her stunning, sky-blue eyes and said, "Perhaps it is your fault your father died."

Fiora scrunched her eye brows, and Riven continued, "But would he approve of your methods of redemption? If he was this great man you and your siblings describe, I could hardly believe he approves of murder in his name."

Fiora seemed shell-shocked, as if she never considered this option before. "B-but how else am I to vindicate his name?"

"He's dead, Fiora," Riven bluntly stated. "His opinion doesn't matter anymore." She placed a hand on her knee and said, "It's time to move on."

Fiora simply stared, unable to reply. She didn't react when Riven set her nose to its original position. She didn't comment on the tingling sensation that hit her as Riven's glowing fingers washed away the pain and healed the appendage almost instantaneously. She didn't move as Riven searched her body for any other injuries.

The platinum blonde stood and collected her weapon, suggesting, "If you want another lesson, come find me."

Riven turned and followed the path to the mansion, finding Ammdar waiting at the door.

He appeared worried. "Monsieur Yi, is she alright?"

Without looking at Fiora or Ammdar, she replied simply, "I have no idea."

He was confused, and turned around to ask her what that meant, but the woman was already gone.

ooooo

 **Please, please, PLEASE leave a comment! Thanks!He**


	17. Chapter 17- A Spark

**HUGE thank you to savitar34 for helping me figure out the story! Please comment on my progress and enjoy! For those of you who are confused, this chapter takes place two months after the last event.**

 **10 Months Ago**

Nearly every day for two months The Grand Duelist had returned to challenge the _Wuju_ Master, and after every match the woman would return bearing the weight of many a crushing loss. However, her spirits never buckled, her morale never worn down to the dull sheen of defeat; instead she limped away exhilarated, and more alive than she'd ever been before. She thirsted for more of this devastating failure, living day to day, only satisfied when her blade was interlocked with the other's. This one-sided beat down was her drug, and her crippling addiction threw a tantrum whenever her eyes weren't glaring into her instructor's eternally-cool gaze. Withdrawal hit her hard with endlessly twitching fingers, a short temper, and total disregard for anything that wasn't about her graceful waltz of blades, and she was fairly certain Ammdar had noticed. If he had, he never commented.

Fiora suspected her infatuation with her daily duel was somehow connected to her opponent, but she didn't know exactly why. The Noxian woman was undeniably attractive, with thick, muscled thighs, wise, crimson eyes set in a counterintuitively soft face, and an athletic upper body that supported full breasts without flaunting them, but this was not quite what drew Fiora to the woman.

After being loudly condemned to what was tantamount to public execution for rightfully defending herself, Master Yi still did not end the duelist's life, though she could have. The blonde had shown mercy at the expense of her own honor. It was something Fiora had only wished she could do, and witnessing someone else commit the profane act with such irreverence opened her eyes to her apparent foolishness. With her life in the hands of her opponent, the event had not only been the ultimate paradigm shift; news of the duelist's defeat followed by the inconceivable fact that she was still sucking in air flowed like waves- no, _tsunamis_ through the streets and alleys of Demacia.

Perhaps it was this act of selflessness that had captivated Fiora, or maybe it was born from a mutual admiration of the martial arts. Maybe it was a combination of the two? Whatever it was, Fiora had developed a fervent respect for the blonde.

The subject of her thoughts sat on her feet, her skilled hands idly resting upon her knees, and that laughable, deceivingly effective sword of hers standing vertically on the rounded pommel. Fiora observed the weapon through the pane of glass separating them, realizing seconds later the impossible nature of the feat: not only was the pommel rounded, the distribution of weight wasn't balanced.

She was about to approach when a familiar voice from behind teased, "Ogling ze teacher, I see?"

Fiora turned to glare at the mischievous mug of Ammdar.

"I see nozing has changed, zen," he added. Her stare morphed into the most murderous she could muster, and he threw his hands up. "Your acquaintances are none of my business."

"You are correct: zey are not," she retorted.

"Alright, alright! I will leave you two to yourselves!" he snickered, then exited the room with an exaggerated, sly swagger.

She huffed through her nostrils- " _Boys, I swear…_ "- before turning to behold those clever, scarlet eyes staring back at her. Fiora tried not to appear startled, but judging from the brief, smug twinkle she received from the sitting woman it didn't work.

Averting her gaze or abandoning her perch at the windowsill would effectively convict her of creeping, leaving the only route of recovery as walking out and confronting the woman. As Fiora exited her home through the double doors, she desperately attempted to hide the bright red flush she knew was spreading across her cheeks.

Yi's eyes were closed, her head angled straight forward. The master detected her approach, and asked with subtle undertones, "Enjoying the view?"

Fiora faltered. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me." Still her eyelids were shut, a small godsend as far as Fiora was concerned.

The Grand Duelist redirected the conversation. "How is it you do zat?" she asked, referencing the blade that defied physics.

Now the other woman opened her eyes. The weapon didn't wobble or make even the most miniscule of movements as the master pinpointed the duelist's interests. "I can't explain it in words. It's not something you do, it's something that happens." She smiled faintly though her tone was despondent, yet at the same time accepting of some past event, as she explained "I knew someone who was a lot better at it than me."

She did that often, the woman with the broken sword. Every time Fiora posed a question considering the blonde's past, the answer was always vague, the true meaning ambiguous. The duelist had interpreted it as an insult at first. After all, she was technically gifting her a room, and not knowing a lick about the history of the stranger sleeping under the same roof had put her on edge until she realized her guest was harmless.

Well, maybe "harmless" wasn't the correct term. The master may be an active pacifist, but Fiora's intuition hinted that it was likely for the benefit of the blonde's surroundings rather than for herself.

She knew what the question would net her, but she still asked, "I am aware I have asked before, but where do you come from?"

Fiora's brow quirked as the master regarded her with a scrutinizing gaze, sizing her up, then replied with the most promising answer the master had ever bestowed upon the brunette. "Tonight."

"Why tonight?" the duelist asked, confused with the other's decision.

"I need to get my facts straight."

That suspicion returned. "What facts must you straighten?"

"It's a long story, Fiora. I need to figure out what I'm willing to tell you."

Fiora supposed that made sense. Her figurative guard lowered.

"Back for another lesson?"

"Why else would I be here?"

"Why were you watching me?"

Regretful of tempering her disposition, the standing woman folded her arms and looked away, scowling in shame and unable to craft a convincing excuse on short notice. But why exactly did she feel she needed an excuse?

Yi chuckled. "Alright then." She stood, grasping the hilt and meandering to the other end of the mat. Fiora's heartbeat skipped, and adrenaline coursed through her limbs, enhancing every aspect of her combat abilities.

The _Wuju_ Bladeswoman turned and nodded in acknowledgment.

"En garde!" Fiora shouted.

The duelist assumed the perfect form she'd practiced for years: left forearm flush against the lower back, body twisted until almost perpendicular to the opponent, right leg in front of the left, iconic rapier defending the _sixte_ qrant.

"Prêtes?"

Yi nodded.

As was her pre-match ritual, she recounted everything she knew of dueling. The words were in Ammdar's voice, for that was how she remembered his teachings.

' _Zere are two lines bisecting ze body. Zis is very important, are you listening? Good. Now where was I…? Ah yes, lines. Zere are two lines zat bisect ze body: one is horizontal and ze ozer is vertical. Ze vertical separates ze chest from ze behind. Oh, what, is ze word 'behind' funny to you? Zis is very serious, so act maturely!_ '

Fiora could hear his sigh of disapproval.

' _Anyways. Ze vertical line separates ze chest- 'inside'- from ze back- 'outside'- and ze horizontal line separates ze upper torso- 'high'- from ze abdomen- 'low'. Do you understand? Togezer zey create four qrants when viewing ze opponent from ze side. Zere is sixte, which is ze outside-high, quarte, ze inside-high, octave, ze outside-low, and septime, or ze inside-low. Now, onto zrusting…_ '

But this was only really relevant to someone trained in Demacian fencing, which she assumed Yi was not. The information was still nice to know.

The Grand Duelist nodded.

"Allez!"

Yi stayed planted where she was, leaving the duelist to guess the other's unpredictable strategy that changed with the wind. Flawless footwork carried the brunette side to side as she contemplated the angle of attack she would use.

She would attempt a low-line strike, followed by a faint to the high with the real blow a jab to the low, then one to the high. Retreat and plan the next segment- _if_ Yi let her, and that was a big if.

Fiora began to chip inches from the length of padding between them, advancing from the side of the master's weaponless arm. But the other woman moved. With inhuman speed, Yi leapt to Fiora's left, then jumped the gap with a lunge to her belly.

The duelist knew from experience that she didn't possess the strength to redirect the attack, and opted to dodge to the left. She rounded about and refaced her opponent just in time to register her opponent's redouble: a large, easily-avoidable horizontal sweep.

Fiora ducked the blow before she realized it was too easy.

Yi used her momentum to pirouette in the same spot, a cataclysmic roundhouse circling to collide with her lower back. Fiora had just stood up, so there was no possible outcome where she didn't absorb all of it; to mitigate the damage, she released all tension just before the impact, rag dolling completely.

A heel connected with the area just left of her spine with catastrophic power, sending Fiora face-planting to the mat. She tried to roll away, but the combination of the placement of the blow with the concussive force that her head had struck the floor with prevented her from doing anything but desperately gasp for breath. Thankfully, the padded floor prevented any brain injuries, but Yi had squarely struck her diaphragm, and she struggled painfully to fill her lungs with air.

She was concentrated on staying conscious, but she could still hear Yi's voice laced not-so-lightly with concern demand, "Hey, are you alright?"

Fiora wheezed.

"Shit."

The prone duelist felt her shirt tug upwards. If Fiora could breathe, a sharp intake of breath would've broken the rigid silence as calloused, warm palms were gently pressed to what was without question a downright abominable bruise. Seconds later, a pleasant buzz tingled her injury, and at a gradual, agonizingly slow pace, she could breathe again.

She gulped huge mouthfuls of air, never as grateful for the wonders of magic as she was now. The hands slithered out from her shirt, and she found herself missing the delightful spark they imbued upon her. Strong digits firmly fingered her spine, checking for fractures most likely. They moved to her neck and almost massaged the area, finding nothing out of the ordinary there either.

Then she was cautiously rolled onto her back, a palm placed on the nape of her neck and supporting her head. A hand brushed a few strands of inky hair from her face as Yi's hovered a few inches from her own, thoroughly searching her pupils for any signs of trauma. Fiora could feel the hot air expelled from the woman's nostrils tease her flesh and she stared up, hoping beyond the realm of reason the master couldn't hear her pounding heart.

Yi seemed to actually look at her then, but she didn't retract immediately. She lingered for a second, an unidentified glimmer flickered and Fiora was certain her own did the same. Yi finally pulled away, but they still stared.

"Sorry about that. Didn't mean to hit you that hard."

Fiora blinked, registering the comment with difficulty. After a short period, she sat up and turned without breaking eye contact. "It is fine."

A pause between them, both still staring at the other.

"Are you ok?" The question was murmured, as if the other woman was afraid of the answer.

Fiora nodded silently, lightly. "Yes."

Another pause. Yi looked relieved. Fiora realized how close they were.

"Do you want to continue?"

Another nod. "Yes." But neither moved for another while.

It was Yi who stood first, offering a hand down to the duelist who accepted graciously. Again, they walked to opposite sides. Again, they faced each other.

"En garde!"

ooooo

Their three-course supper was, as always, of the best of the best quality. Steak tartare seasoned with that salty, smoky, signature taste of Worchester sauce on a slice of fresh-baked rye paired with a comparatively tame vegetable soup consisting of potatoes, carrots, leeks, and several different forms of pepper kicked the evening off, followed by the main entrée comprised of chicken braised in a combination of Burgundy, mushrooms, and lots of garlic. Steak fries and baguettes accompanied the dish, an assortment of Fiora's favorite cheeses widening the course's palette with creamy textures and a variety of flavors. Then came the desert: crème brûlèe in all of its decadently sweet, carmeley, custardy glory.

Flutes of bubbly champagne completed the meal, and Fiora enjoyed the burning sensation the carbonated liquor coated her throat with. She casually sipped the vintage wine, pacing her consumption of the entrée to ensure she left room to sample everything and then some.

Master Yi, on the other hand, wolfed everything down as if it were her last meal. The tartare vanished almost as fast as it had appeared, and the bowl for the soup was slurped clean of any trace of broth or vegetable. She devoured the chicken, ripping the poor thing to shreds before shoving the remains into her gaping maw. The crème brûlèe disappeared almost as quickly as the tartare, and she'd guzzled three flutes of champagne by the time the duelist had emptied half of her original glass. However, she didn't seem the least bit tipsy.

Fiora had once commented on the other woman's method of eating.

' _Lose yourself in the Shurima for a week. Then, and only then, can you judge how I eat._ '

Fiora hadn't said anything since.

But now the spirit of inquiry required answers, the alluring pull of knowledge growing too great to resist. To say the proposition of finally learning the past of her mysterious guest had excited her would be an understatement; it had practically consumed her for the remainder of that day, and she was currently fidgeting in anticipation.

She tried to conceal this obsession, but suspense still crept into her voice as she asked a satisfied Yi, "I do not intend to intrude, Mademoiselle Yi, but I believe zat earlier, you promised to share some of your backstory?" Yi shifted, and the brunette hastily added, "Unless of course, you do not wish to anymore? I understand if-."

"You don't have to walk on eggshells around me, you know," Yi interrupted with an amused smile.

Fiora nodded in acknowledgment.

The blonde slumped into her seat, analyzing the patterns of the ceiling. "I suppose I did say that, didn't I?"

"You did Mademoiselle," Fiora confirmed.

Yi pondered a moment- "Where to start, where to start?", eventually nodding to some sort of conclusion she'd reached. She looked to Fiora and sat up. "Well, for starters, I'm not Master Yi."

"What do you mean you are not Master Yi?" Was this not the legendary Master Yi? Had she been wrong? And if so, how? Her hand drifted to a straight-edge dagger strapped to the underside of the table.

Not-Yi chuckled. "Sorry, that came out wrong." Her gaze darted from the duelist's face to her scrabbling hand and back again, adding, "And you won't ever need that for me. I promise."

"Many a man has said ze same."

"I'm not a man," she sarcastically retorted. But then, a more reasonable, "I don't understand why you think you need that for me. I can kill you if I want to, anytime. In fact, I almost have, on several occasions. Why would I do it now, after all this time?"

"Perhaps you are- ah, what's ze phrase- 'in it for ze long con'?" Fiora replied, squinting her eyes. It was unlikely, but loneliness tended to instill paranoia into its victims.

"And bring the wrath of the entirety of the Demacian Guard crashing down upon me?" Then, for good measure, the blonde added, "I said you don't have to walk on eggshells around me. What you're doing right now is stomping all over my paws. Do you _want_ to scare me off?"

This shut the duelist up. Her hand retreated, and she said, "I apologize, Mademoiselle."

The stranger nodded. "I'm not Master Yi, per se."

"How so? Are you not ze _Wuju_ master you claimed to be?"

"Oh no, I am. I imagine most of the tales you've heard of Master Yi are true." She cocked her head to one side, curiosity claiming her face and her tone as she queried, "What have you heard of Master Yi?"

Fiora was about to reply when the woman interjected with, "Never mind, that's not important. What is important is that I'm not technically Master Yi."

"If so, zen who are you?"

The woman studied Fiora, contemplating whether or not tell her. But after mulling it over for a time, she answered, "My real name is Riven."

"Zen why do you not call yourself Riven?" the duelist asked, confused.

Riven sighed and slouched once again. "It's a long, complicated story."

"I have time."

"I don't have the patience." Fiora frowned. "Sorry, it takes a lot out of me. Also, I don't really trust you a whole lot. No offense."

"None taken. Zis trust is why I am asking you zese zings."

"All you need to know for now is that my real name is Riven." She resumed her staring contest with the ceiling. "What next?"

"Perhaps you could inform me of your birthplace?"

Riven chortled. "I thought that was obvious? I'm Noxian. I was born and raised in Noxus."

"Hm, funny. You are not like any Noxian I have ever known," said Fiora.

"You know many?"

"None wiz hearts zat still beat," she explained.

The blonde bowed her head as if the answer was what she expected. "Yes, I suppose I was different."

The duelist cautiously questioned, "Pardon me for asking, but what was life like in Noxus? All I have ever heard are horror stories."

A dejected smirk coupled with a snort, and Riven explained, "I honestly don't know. I was a different person then, with different ideals and different focuses. I was a good soldier. I never asked questions and I carried out orders as efficiently as possible. I never realized how fucked the system was until I freed myself from it."

"Why did you free yourself?"

The tone darkened, and Riven chugged the rest of the contents of her glass. She gazed at her empty plate, mind in turmoil.

Riven's voice was sudden and grim. "You know about the Noxus-Ionia war?"

"Yes, as does anyone wiz ears and a brain," Fiora chortled darkly.

Riven sardonically wagged a finger in the eastward direction. "Yeah, well, I helped start that."

Fiora's eyes widened; she'd expected the woman to have participated, but she appeared to be too young to have anything to do with the initial invasion.

"How old are you?"

"29. Maybe 30. I don't know," she replied nonchalantly.

"How do you not know your own age?" Fiora asked, frowning.

"I haven't needed to know my age for a long time now."

Fiora did the math. "You were 18 years old?"

"Yup. And a commander to boot. No combat experience whatsoever, and I was responsible for hundreds of lives." Riven laughed bitterly at the dismal situation.

Fiora could only stare in incredulity. She knew Noxus was unorthodox, but this was madness.

"I know. It's as crazy as it sounds."

There was one question Fiora desired to know the answer to, but she figured it was too insensitive to ask-

"Yes, I killed people. I know that's what you're wondering."

-but the woman answered it anyway.

Riven's mood nose-dived into the darkest, grungiest corners known to man. "I killed Ionians. I killed soldiers. I killed-," Riven faltered here, but darkly tittered and continued, "-well it's too late now. I killed women and children. I'm responsible for the deaths of entire _villages_."

Riven looked at her with haunted eyes. "Do you know what it's like to kill someone that hasn't even had a chance to deserve the fate you're giving them?"

Fiora was speechless at first. She had no idea that the front line was that bad.

The duelist softly asked, "Was zis when you left Noxus?"

"No. Massacre after massacre after massacre and I still couldn't get it through my thick skull that we weren't the good guys. No, I left just as the real fighting began."

The woman groaned and rubbed her tired eyes with her palms.

She sat back up. "I left when I realized Noxus didn't care about the people dying in its wars." Riven sighed and rolled her neck. Her tone was the most resentful and sour Fiora had ever heard it. "There was one nasty little skirmish in particular. People were dropping like flies on all sides. There were piles of bodies and pools of blood and gore."

Fiora had never seen a battlefield, but if half of the tales were true Fiora wasn't sure if she could handle it.

"But, I accidentally managed to complete the objective. Don't ask; it's another story I don't have the willpower to explain. So I think it's mission complete, right? We won and they lost? Turns out that's not how war works."

"You see, the Ionians were pissed off that we 'won'. Not even minutes after the target was eliminated Ionian reinforcements arrive. I'm about to call for some back-up, but before I can it magically appears: a gunship packing enough heat to blast whoever was unfortunate enough to stand in its way to the Stone Age and back with a single volley." Riven toned down, eyes distant, almost whispering, "I didn't think they'd do it."

"Do what?" Fiora probably didn't want to know the answer.

Riven didn't respond.

"Are you alright?"

More silence, but she answered "No, but if I don't say it now I never will." She inhaled deeply and sat up. "For a lack of a better term, they bombed us all to Hell. Thousands of us, friend or foe, died that night because some prick in a balloon decided we weren't worth saving."

"Fiora, do you know what that sludge does to you?"

Fiora shook her head solemnly.

"You don't die instantly. It melts you alive. You can watch your fingers liquefy before your eyeballs drip form their sockets. And even if it doesn't kill you at first, you die weeks later in agony."

The woman slowly unbound the wrappings shielding her left forearm. When the bandages fell, the grotesque, deformed excuse for flesh that covered the wrist and the area below it nearly made Fiora gag- she'd seen her fair share of gore and blood, but seeing it nest on a living being made her skin crawl and her stomach churn.

"It was then that I realized what Noxus really was. I decided that I couldn't be a part of that anymore, so I left. Years passed, and I found people who helped set me on the right track. And that-," Riven reclined, "is the track that lead me here."

Fiora felt obligated to console the woman but she didn't know how. All she could think to say was, "I am sorry."

"Don't be sorry. You had nothing to do with it." Riven exhaled again, hands massaging her face. "I could get philosophical and complain how war is just a game where our elders dream up new reasons to send young people to die, but my mood is bad as it is, so I won't."

The two sat there, stewing in the emotions of the moment. The Riven stood, gave her "Thanks" for the dinner, and retired to her quarters, leaving the duelist alone.

Several bombs had been dropped that night. Yi had defied orders and forged her own path. Yi had killed people she didn't want to for the sake of a corrupt country. Everyone Yi knew disappeared practically overnight.

Fiora realized that they had a lot more in common than she'd originally thought.

She tried to think of any way to aid the woman on her journey, and an idea formed. It was the least she could do, but she knew from experience that even the smallest amount of help would be appreciated.

Abandoning the silverware and dishes for the kitchen staff to attend to, she wandered the halls in search of anyone she could find. Opportunity presented itself in a smaller woman in a maid's attire.

The woman appeared surprised, but nonetheless diligently heeded her master's instructions. "I require you to send for someone wiz medical expertise."

"Are you injured, Mademoiselle?" the servant queried, worried.

"No, not me," she waived her gloved hand, exasperated. "Can you do zis for me?" she urgently demanded.

"Why yes, of course! I will get right on it!"

"Excellent."

Her conscience mildly satisfied for the day's good deed, she turned on her heel and strutted off, leaving a very confused servant in her wake.


	18. Chapter 18- A Flame

**I'm completely blown away by the amount of support this has been getting! You guys are the best, wouldn't be able to do it without ya! Anyways, new chapter as requested by Gmp1000. Comment and enjoy!**

 **8 Months Ago**

A metallic _clang!_ erupted from the point of contact of elegant, silvery steel and its charred, unsightly counterpart. With minimal effort, the foil of the ornate rapier was smoothly thrown from the clashing duo, creating an unmissable opportunity for attack. The platinum-blonde was never one for allowing weaknesses to slip between her fingers, and so grasped the advantage as if releasing it would spell death for the woman.

Riven hunkered down and rushed, catching the woman's stomach with her shoulder. The blonde's arms wrapped around the other woman's waist like a vice as she continued to step forward, inertia relieving her of all of the stress of the action. Riven redirected the momentum upward, hoisting the woman above her head.

Then, she slammed the body downwards, Fiora's torso whipping down to smash the rear of her head into the padded mat. Riven released her from her clutches, only to plop down onto her stunned opponent's stomach, straddling her hips. Her left hand grasped the wrist of Fiora's weapon hand, pinning it to the ground while the master's enchanted blade pressed lightly against her throat.

Fiora recovered quickly. Riven could pinpoint exactly when the woman beneath her registered their intimate proximity; the thump-thump of the duelist's heart was so intense the platinum-blonde worried it might burst from the effort.

The duelist didn't make a move, didn't attempt escape. She just lay there, staring up, trying and failing to appear completely neutral. But Riven could spy the poorly-shrouded glister in those striking, icy-blue eyes.

Riven allowed something to tinge her voice as she asked, "You ok?"

It was present, though masked, in Fiora's tone as well. "I am now."

"Good."

Riven didn't budge for a solid five-or-so seconds. She moved to lift herself off, bending inward even closer. The tips of their noses brushed gently against each other.

Fiora's breath hitched.

Riven smirked.

She stood, Fiora still laying comatose. When she stepped over the woman, she raised her leg slightly higher than she needed to, daring the woman below to sneak a peek under her skirt. She did.

Riven, satisfied with her handiwork, sauntered away to her room to enjoy the wonders of the House Laurent library.

ooooo

Lazy beam of sunlight filtered through the cracks of the rich curtains that hid the humongous windows of the over-sized study of the manor. The room was twice as tall and three times as big as any other in the mansion, and where there weren't windows there were gorgeous, mahogany bookcases carved with the house crest that stretched from floor to roof. On the shelves of the mammoth leviathans sat a vast array of novels and anthologies, as diverse in topic as they were in appearance. Great red tomes sat aside simpler, paperback pamphlets and thick manuals bound with metal rings.

Below the sill of a window sat a magnificent desk sporting multiple drawers, feathers of all sizes, shapes, and colors ejecting from inkwells atop their burners. Yellowed papers, stained constitutions, and aged, wrinkled treatises littered the flawless expanse of lacquered wood, and a dormant lantern stood defiant, safeguarding the precious documents. An armchair harboring so much authority and sovereignty was tucked into the alcove beneath the bureau.

The center of the study was occupied by a couch and a small table adjacent to the armrest, all supported by a lavish rug with a frilled border. A lamp, the only active source of light in the dim space, arched from the table to angle its phosphorescence onto the couch.

It was here that Riven lay, back and neck supported by plush pillows, the calf of one leg resting on the elevated knee of the other. Her eyes intelligently skimmed over line after line of _A History of Demacian Royal Lineage Vol. 4_ , expanding upon her knowledge of hierarchies. She'd read the Ionian series already, no history of the Blue Islands existed, and her expertise of the noble heritage of Noxus rivaled scholars of the subject. When she wasn't working, fighting, or fighting to work, she could be found in the company of a good book.

Riven detected footsteps. She lowered the book to her chest.

"Greetings," the voice of Ammdar disturbed the silence. He almost seemed out of breath.

Riven scooched upward, finding better purchase and sitting in a relaxed manner. "Hello, Ammdar."

The man dragged the heavy armchair over to face the woman and seated himself upon the furniture, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

He looked around, admiring the sophisticated environment. "Zis was Papa's at one time."

"It's quite the collection." A thought occurred. "Would you rather I not be here? I understand if you don't."

He shook his head. "Please, stay. It was Papa's favorite place. He would lock himself in zis study for hours, reading or writing."

Riven surveyed the shelves. "How did your father come across so many books?"

"Have you forgotten where you are? Zis is Demacia; honor is only rivalled by knowledge. And Papa, ever ze intellectual, was not one to idly stand by and watch ze old world be forgotten."

Riven nodded his acknowledgement.

A smile tugged his lips and he murmured a chuckle. "You know, when I was but a young boy, I used to zink zat books had souls."

Riven looked confused, so he explained, "Zere was so much knowledge and life in ze pages I could not believe zat zey were just stacks of paper. Zey spoke to me, and for a while I spoke back. Zen I grew up." He appeared regretful now, that nostalgic joy meshing with sadness. "Growing up is not what zey said it would be."

A momentary period of silence.

Her response almost startled him with its suddenness. "Perhaps they do." His eybrow quirked, and she repeated, "That the books have souls. Makes sense to me."

He looked back to the collection. He gradually began nodding. "Aye. Perhaps zey do."

Another period of quiet.

"I take it you didn't stop by to chat about spirits."

Ammdar's gaze returned to her. "Zat is correct." He straightened a little, but not much. "I am leaving soon."

This time, Riven's eyebrow quirked. "Oh?"

He nodded, excitedly. "I do not know where, but it will be anywhere but here."

"And what is 'here'?" Riven queried.

"Ze manor? Demacia? I have not yet decided, but ze point is you will likely not see me again."

"Why are you leaving?' She asked.

Ammdar pointed a finger in her general direction and said, "Actually, zat is what I came to speak wiz you about. As I review my intentions now, I realize it is more of a zank you."

"A thank you for what?"

"I will get to zat. But first I must explain somezing else. You see," he scooted closer so she could hear him better, "I have lived at zis manor for all of my life. I have rarely stepped outside its gates, and I have _never_ set foot outside ze walls. Zis is my home, but it has also been my prison."

Riven wanted to ask questions, but she suspected they would be answered eventually.

"From a young age, Fiora and I have been very close. For ze longest time, despite what I wanted to believe, it was she who looked after me. I would teach her swordplay, and in return she would teach me to talk to girls."

Riven horribly suppressed a smile at the cute image forming in her mind.

He smiled sheepishly as well. "I know; it seemed a reasonable request at ze time. We were ze best of friends, always looking out for each ozer."

He sighed deeply, the smile disappeared, and he adopted a haggard appearance. "Zen, ze scandal happened. You know how it went, I have already informed you. Fiora was forced to kill Papa. But on zat day, she also killed part of herself."

Riven nodded sympathetically. She knew the feeling all too well.

"You must understand, Mademoiselle Riven, that Papa was not the only person to leave."

Alright, this was very new. For all she knew, Ammdar and Fiora were the only inhabitants of the estate.

"Mama, she-," he choked on his words, "-she died of grief very soon after. A servant discovered her body in her bed, wrapped tightly in ze sheets. Ze doctors surmise zat her heart could not handle ze stress, and she passed away silently in her sleep."

"That's rough."

"It does not end zere. I am not Fiora's only sibling."

"Well, how many were there?" Riven asked.

"Zere were five of us, all boys," Ammdar stated.

"What happened?"

"Various zings. Ze oldest, Frederick, he died in ze last Noxian- Demacian war. She never knew him well, but the ozers she knew. I am ze second oldest," he looked slightly above her, recounting the tragic tale.

"Dorian was ze second youngest. He blamed Fiora for ze deaz of Papa, claiming zat she always was ze- I zink he called her ze "rouge variable" of ze family, and ze only reason he stayed was for Mama. When she died, he renounced his heritage and stormed off. I have not heard of him since."

"Zen zere was Dominique, ze middle child. He left shortly after Dorian, but his reasons were less… polite. I believe he called Fiora a 'bitch who does not know her place, why you fools allowed her to run her mouz is beyond me'." Riven rolled her eyes and Ammdar shrugged. "What can I say? He was ze middle child."

"And finally, zere was Abel." A remorseful sigh. "Poor Abel. He was ze youngest of all of us, Fiora included. He was also of ze belief zat any insult could be washed away wiz ze blood of ze offender. At ze slightest whisper of gossip, he would demand a duel, much like Fiora. We are all excellent in ze art of ze blade, but when compared to Fiora, we are novices. He picked a fight a he couldn't win, and so soon after ze scandal, he joined Papa and Mama."

"All friends and allies of House Laurent shunned us, our honor as broken as ze sword you wield."

Ammdar hung his head. His voice caught in his throat as he confessed, "I could have saved him. If I had just tried harder, talked to him one more time-," he sniffed. "-But I did not come to wallow in sadness."

His gaze returned to hers, and with grave conviction, he explained, "Fiora lost everyone in ze span of a week. Her entire world was turned inside-out and upside-down. Her friends abandoned her. Her family eizer died or disowned her. Her reputation was ruined. There was no one left."

"No one, except for me. I could not do what ze ozers had done. I was her only friend. And zough I disagreed wiz her tactics, wiz her decisions, and wiz her rationale, I stayed because she needed me. Regardless of anyzing she would tell anyone, she needed someone to set her on ze right track." He chuckled sardonically, "And quite frankly I did a shit job of doing it."

"I could not just desert her as everyone else had. I devoted my life to righting her wrongs. I only left her side to attend to ze servants or run an errand. I estranged myself from what friends I had left. I gave up on love. I gave up on my dreams. I had traded my life for hers."

The slouch disappeared, and his spirit stirred as he pointed to her. "But zen, after years of watching her hopelessly spiral into oblivion and self-ruin, along comes a woman of strength, of heart, and of respect."

Riven was never very good at accepting compliments, and her cheeks blushed pink.

It was his turn to roll his eyes. "And, of course, my sister being my sister ignores all input and decides zat she and zis woman will fight for some higher purpose. Honestly, I zought you were doomed." He waved his hand and shook his head as he quickly added, "No insult to you, Mademoiselle."

"None taken. Please, resume."

His eyes were lively, his hands animated. "We boz atrociously underestimated you, and Fiora nearly paid ze ultimate price. But you sacrificed your honor to spare her. In her disillusioned eyes, you zrew away ze greatest respect anyone can ever have wizout hesitation so zat she may live. You reached more progress wiz her after only two days zan I had over my entire _life_ wiz her, Mademoiselle!"

Riven had no idea she could affect someone in such a grandiose way.

He spied the shock in crimson eyes and the flames of his motivation were kindled further. "Oh, I am not done yet. Over ze last four monz, Fiora has been a different person. She is no longer ze mopey, stone-like figure she was for so long. She is like her old self! She has biting wit, and sarcasm, and humor! Just ze ozer day, she laughed, she actually _laughed_ at my corny pun!" He spoke as if the event were monumental.

"My Fiora has sparks in her eyes and a bounce in her step like never before! Do you not understand?" He stood quickly now, extending his arms in disbelief. "She is alive again!"

And then, Ammdar crouched, and placed his hands vigorously on her shoulders. "She is alive because of _you_ , Riven! _You_ have given her new meaning! _You_ are ze reason she wakes so early each morning! During your time with her, she has grown so much! She is independent once again! I do not need to look after her anymore!"

He looked about to explode, his eyes so wide and full of vitality. "She does not need me anymore, Riven! I am finally free!" He repeated with tears of joy in his big, ochre eyes, " _I am finally free!_ "

Ammdar closed the distance and hugged her closely, lightly sobbing into her shoulder. She was completely speechless. This was a new experience, and she possessed no knowledge whatsoever on how to handle it. She deduced that she should hug him back, and she awkwardly looped her arms around his back.

After an excruciatingly long period of time, he retreated, and with dopey eyes and the most sincere voice Riven had ever heard, he said, "I thank you, Riven. For what you have done for Fiora. For what you have done for me. Because of you, I can finally leave wizout guilt dragging me back."

He stood and wiped his eyes on his embroidered sleeve. He chuckled at her bewildered expression. "My apologies. I allowed myself get carried away."

"There's no need." Riven was beaming.

He inhaled through his nose, and exhaled through his mouth.

"Have you told Fiora, yet?" the blonde asked.

"Yes. Days ago, actually. I wanted to properly zank you, and it took some time to formulate a plan of attack."

"I appreciate the effort."

He nodded, staring through the breach in the curtains. "I do not know where I will go." He repeated. Then he turned back to her and confessed, "But I know she will be in good hands."

Riven cocked her head and viewed him through suspiciously squinted eyes. "How do you know that I'll stay?"

Ammdar's expression turned amused, a sly grin spreading over his dimpled face. "Oh, Mademoiselle, do not make me laugh!"

He laughed anyways.

"I am not blind. I have watched your bouts of practice. I have seen ze way Fiora looks at you, and I have seen zat you look at her in ze same manner. You would be lying if you said zat you plan on leaving anytime soon, yes?"

Riven's knee-jerk reaction was to refute his claim, but she knew she'd be lying. She'd fallen for the duelist, there was no doubt about that. However, she couldn't fully comprehend the depth of affection she harbored for the woman; was it a leisurely fondness based on desire or was it a heavier, serious adoration for the brunette? She couldn't say just yet, but she knew she was rooted for the time being.

"I suppose that's right," she conceded.

"I knew it!" he victoriously exclaimed. Ammdar either didn't notice her sour expression or he didn't care, stating, "I suppose I will leave you wiz your zoughts, Mademoiselle. I will notify you when my departure is imminent."

And with that, he was gone.

ooooo

"Good luck, Ammdar." Fiora's goodbye was tearful, and Riven could hear the involuntary trembling of her lip.

The duelist stood on her tiptoes and embraced her brother in a bear hug. With his sister's head buried in the crook of his neck, he softly replied, "Ze offer is appreciated, but I will not need it."

She retracted and gave him a look. A sad smile spread upon both faces, and Ammdar lifted a hand to wipe a tear from the woman's cheek. "I will see you again."

Fiora just hugged him again, and the sight tugged at the blonde onlooker's heartstrings.

The duelist ripped herself away. "Now go, before I regret letting you go."

He smiled smugly. "We would not want that now, would we?" He looked to Fiora, "Goodbye," then to the warrior watching him depart from the front steps of the manor, "Goodbye, and good luck." He glanced at Fiora cryptically, adding, "You will need it."

The duelist, confused, looked to Riven for an explanation, but she didn't get one.

With one final wave, Ammdar set off to live his life on his own, choosing only to pack two bags, his weapon among them.

The crunch of his boots faded as he created distance, and nearing the gate. He turned one last time at the end of the path and waved.

As Fiora waved back, Riven studied the woman. She studied the tight leggings that concealed strong thighs, the form-fitting sleeved shirt, and the waves of black hair cascading in a perfect waterfall down the rear of her head. She studied the absence of her rapier and what that meant, the way she gnawed anxiously on her thumbnail, and the unsteady rise and fall of her shoulders.

Riven collected all of this data, and with a cautious review of the facts, she decided just how much she cared for the woman before her.

ooooo

 **BWAHAHAHAHAHA! You thought I would serve you a satisfying chapter, but here you are, desperately clawing to maintain your hold on the craggy edge of the cliff! Psyche! But seriously, I'm working on the next chapter.**


	19. Chapter 19- A Roaring Fire

**Yes, the reference had to be made sometime. You know the one. Vroom vroom.**

 **6 Months Ago**

The Runic Windblade swept horizontally to slice the legs of the nimble duelist, but the target had read the move and was airborne long before it connected. A head capped with ashen hair tilted upward to take in the glorious sight above her.

The woman descended from above like an angel, obsidian streaked with pinkish-purple billowing behind her like the flags atop spires, her bluesteel rapier poised like a scorpion to inject its victim with justice, her mouth pulled into a furious snarl. It was fantastically spectacular, fit to be captured in time on a tapestry and hung above the mantle.

Unfortunately for Riven, it was also flying straight for her. She wrapped her hand around the end of her blade, resulting in her holding the weapon like handlebars of a motorcycle, and just as the point of silver was about to collide and run her through, she pushed upward, redirecting the foil to spear the air above her left shoulder. As the rapier's length slid down to the guard, the crouching woman stood, raising both pairs of arms above both heads. The bell eventually connected with the edge of the Windblade, and before the other woman could react, she retracted and slammed the flat into Fiora's chest.

The woman wobbled backward, and Riven allowed her the chance to recover; she'd chosen to play defensive this time.

Her opponent reassumed the stance and slowly circled, eyes analyzing every movement and limb placement.

Riven faced the same direction, as always, head swiveling to follow the predator.

"You checking me out?" the blonde teased.

"What if I am?" Fiora retorted slyly.

"I'd like to know what you think-."

The Grand Duelist was to her five o'clock when she attacked. The jab was aimed at her lower torso, a smart move as Riven couldn't shift her hips in time to dodge and counter. The platinum-blonde twirled around, blade extended, intercepting the glimmering steel before it could pierce flesh.

Fiora altered the direction of her deflected sword, swinging it around her head to strike diagonaly downward from the other direction. Riven parried, but gave no ground, and Fiora performed the move again, wind-milling singing steel around her body to strike again, this one aimed to hit the left side of Riven's abdomen.

The blonde blocked it easily. The duelist stepped inward and stabbed at the exile's right shoulder, attempting to force Riven into a retreat, but the Noxian was stubborn and didn't budge as she swatted it away.

Fiora made the mistake of lashing out with her palm to try and knock the statue off balance, a move the duelist had picked up from her sparring partner. With her weaponless hand, Riven caught the blow by the woman's wrist, torqueing the appendage in such a manner as to force the Demacian to whip around to avoid breaking her humerus, pinning her forearm to her spine.

Riven's smug mug peaked over Fiora's right shoulder and asked, "You didn't answer my question. What'd you think?"

Fiora flipped her hair out of her eyes, twisting her neck awkwardly to glare at her opponent. Haughtily, she replied, "I have seen better."

"Psh. You're delusional," Riven countered, before shoving the duelist again.

Fiora pirouetted, and Riven advanced only to immediately retreat to avoid a large vertical sweep originating from below.

Then a thought occurred to the blonde. It was a crazy, spontaneous, heat-of-the moment thought, but for reasons she didn't know she succumbed to the madness and acted.

Fiora's weapon arm still pointed skyward, and Riven closed the distance. The duelist tried to intimidate another retreat, slashing the rapier downward, but the blonde was too close, and as Fiora's arm came down, her elbow glanced off of Riven's angled left forearm.

They stood close, but not nearly as close as Riven needed her. Her left reached out and snaked around to grasp the nape of Fiora's neck. The blonde's right released her weapon and clutched the other woman's left forearm.

Riven reeled in her catch, the woman's eyes widening as they drew closer. Riven's chapped lips claimed Fiora's perfect, peachy ones, the duelist's muffled squeal of surprise making the exile smile humorously into the kiss. The blonde met no resistance, and their eyes closed simultaneously. Their breasts smooshed against each other, Riven pushed deeper into the embrace, the fingers of her left hand running gently through silky, raven locks while her right slid up the duelist's arm, her thumb lightly massaging the crease of the other woman's elbow. The duelist's heartbeat hammered at her ribcage, matching the exile's in intensity and tempo. Riven nibbled Fiora's lower lip, tongue caressing the bruised flesh, and the object of her affection whimpered.

A thud resounded from below- Fiora had dropped her weapon.

' _I guess I won._ '

Riven broke away, still clutching the woman close, and pressed her cheek against Fiora's. Her lips were just close enough to tickle the duelist's ear as she whispered erotically, "Well, I think you're pretty cute." Riven sucked on the lobe, tugging at her ear.

Fiora shuddered, and expelled a shaky, warm breath. Riven kissed her cheek once, squeezed the woman's hand, then stepped away entirely.

Fiora's mouth hung slightly agape, her heavy eyelids fluttered open, and she swayed where she stood. Then she went stock still, both hands shooting upward to cover her lips, staring at Riven with eyes so wide, they bore right through her.

The warrior grinned suggestively. "You know where to find me." She bent over to pick up her weapon, sheathed it, and brushed past the woman, winking and stroking the duelist's outer thigh as she did so.

Fiora just stared at the blonde, looking positively shocked.

Riven chuckled as she wondered if she broke the other woman somehow, that come next morn she would still be planted in the same spot.

That would be disappointing, to say the least.

ooooo

The blonde spent the rest of the day perusing ancient knowledge in the study, though it was difficult to stay focused. She'd neither seen a wink of nor heard a peep from the other woman since the match, and every time she heard footfalls, she carefully listened to identify whether or not they were the clack-clack of stilettoes on wood to no avail. They were always the wrong decibel or the wrong pace, and they never stopped at the library.

Several hours passed, and Riven admitted defeat when the last rays of sunshine disappeared over the horizon.

' _Oh well. Maybe tomorrow?_ ' She forced herself to be optimistic.

She casually strolled to her room, passing by several servants in outfits carrying sheets and cleaning supplies.

As she passed the bathroom, Riven became aware of how grungy she felt, recoiling after whiffing her underarms. That would not do. After bathing herself in a cataract of steaming water ejected from an appropriately rose-shaped, golden showerhead, she swept the droplets off with a towel that felt like kitten fur, appreciating the luxury of her situation.

In colloquial terms, the mansion was the swankiest "home" she'd ever had the pleasure of bunking at, the closest being that time one time in the Frel jord when she nearly froze to death.

Riven chuckled inwardly; those were fun times.

The blonde felt so squeaky clean, she was certain she reflected enough light to burn through paper, if one used a magnifying glass. She didn't bother with her clothes, leaving all but her chest wrappings and her underpants in the bin by the shower. The walk from the washroom to her room was short enough, and she wasn't body conscious, so she waltzed to bed, closing the needlessly-large door behind her.

Riven sighed as she stretched her legs, rotating her arms to free up the kinks and knots in her limbs from exercise. She lay down, face up, and willed her breathing to slow, dark tendrils of sleep influencing her conscience into a peaceful abyss.

Three soft knocks at the door.

Riven's bleary eyes opened, and with a grumble she threw off the covers. The faint, earthy scent of sweet blossoms erased all exhaustion from herself and she slowly opened the door.

Fiora stood wearing only a scarlet, chiffon robe that cut off just above the knee. Her arms crossed beneath her sizable chest, highlighting her buxom bosom and keeping the gown closed. The complexion pulled tight over sharp cheekbones flushed a rosy red, and straight, white teeth nervously bit the bottom lip as a single, anxious, icy iris that stared at the blonde floated in an ivory pool. Inky black hair striped twice with a passionate pink covered the woman's left eye, and a flip of the head threw the locks to the side. Without her heels, she was almost a head shorter than the exile, and her neck angled upward so she could gaze at Riven with adoration mixed with hesitation.

She seemed so fragile now in contrast to the stoic confidence she usually flaunted, as if she were as delicate as the object on the House Laurent crest, with petals so vulnerable and breakable. It was obvious this was not easy for her and Riven respected her bravery.

She tried to speak, "I… I…," but gave up on words when they failed her, and opted instead to place a dainty hand on Riven's chest, stepping on her tiptoes to press her lips against the blonde's. It was chaste, and it was over almost as soon as it started, but it conveyed the message she couldn't vocalize. She tried to step back to gauge the reaction.

Riven took several seconds to register, but when she reached an understanding, she grinned lecherously and grabbed at the retreating woman who yelped.

"You call that a kiss?" she taunted, voice dripping with desire. Then she pulled her in, roughly crushing their bodies together, lifting the woman's thigh with one hand, the other pushing the rear of the duelist's head into her own.

Their eyes slammed shut, and Fiora returned the kiss fervently this time, hands reaching up to cup the cheeks of the taller woman's face. Riven peeked down at the woman's robe that drifted open in the breeze and appreciated the vermillion brassiere and matching panties.

As they sucked at each other's mouths, the blonde swiped a tongue side-to-side along the brunette's entrance, and those puffy lips parted to accept the woman into her mouth. Fiora moaned softly as their wet muscles danced and wrestled in their oral caverns, pressing into the blonde's body with bruising power. The duelist's technique was almost non-existent, but the lack of experience was cute to the exile. Riven groaned with pleasure and held her even tighter, their breathy gasping and sloppy smooching being the only sound between the two.

Riven's left hand released the back of Fiora's head and slithered into the robe, trailing fingers up smooth skin until it found the metal clasp supporting the other woman's bra. A succinct _snap!_ resounded, but neither ceased their lusty kissing. The bra had no shoulder-straps, but their breasts were so firmly locked together that the garment couldn't fall, but Riven couldn't bring herself to part with the other woman. Fiora solved the issue in the end, ripping the article from between them and tossing it somewhere else, returning her arms to loop around the taller's neck.

Riven's right hand slid gradually up Fiora's impossibly-long thigh, calloused palm tickling the flesh and snaking into the robe to squeeze the supple globe of Fiora's ass. Fiora whimpered, then moaned throatily as two fingers extended from that hand and rubbed circles around her clothed center. The duelist harshly ground her hips into the taller woman's, trying to wring as much pleasure as she could.

The blonde smiled into the kiss as she retracted the fingers, hand retreating up her spine and began to walk backwards, guiding the shorter woman in an awkward hobble towards the bed. Fiora's heartbeat kicked it up to eleven, and blood roared in Riven's ears in anticipation. As they neared the bed, they pivoted so that the duelist faced away, and the exile playfully nudged the woman backwards until her knees hit the mattress and she plopped onto her rear.

Riven did not sit just yet; instead she grabbed the loose end of the bindings on her chest and slowly unwound them, staring with a dominant smirk into Fiora's hungry eyes. The duelist's hands were still at the exiles hips as the last bandage was removed and the Noxian's rosy nipples were exposed to the elements. The standing woman gracefully clambered, if such a thing was possible, onto the sitting, and gently pushed the brunette's shoulders into the comforter.

But then Fiora halted suddenly, placing a hand on the exile's chest again, and looking with big eyes at her partner.

"I… I…," yet again she couldn't get the words out.

"I understand," Riven said sympathetically, trying to continue but the brunette's message was too important to be brushed aside and she held firm.

Fiora closed her eyes and breathed, opening them to grace Riven with all of the compassion and adoration in the world. "I love you."

A dopey grin invaded the exile's face and she leaned in to kiss the woman. "I love you too, darling."

The duelist was the happiest she'd ever seen her. She easily cooperated, tugging at Riven's neck to envelope her in a deep, loving kiss. The woman on top broke away, that mischievous craving threatening to consume her. Love was a new concept for the both of them, and both looked forward to sharing more experiences together.

The Noxian repositioned herself, carefully spreading the woman's knees and adjusting so that the woman below her straddled her waist.

She sat up straight and noticed the shy expression of her lover.

"Zis… I have never done zis before," Fiora informed her, seemingly scared of Riven's response.

The exile warmly smiled and assured her, "It makes no difference to me, hun." Fiora seemed satisfied, and her head tilted back as Riven's hands roved the woman's thighs, passing so close to where Fiora wanted her most.

The Noxian closely examined her partner, admiring the contours of her flawless body. The legs she stroked stretched endlessly, powerful and dense, from the flower between her thighs. Above her shaven crotch, the faint lines of her lean abdomen crisscrossed over her toned stomach, and Riven's wandering hands traveled upward to thumb the dips and curves. Then Riven's eyes devoured Fiora's breasts. Pink nipples crowned plump mounds, and the woman on top almost drooled staring at them.

However, the exile's hands didn't climb higher- that was coming very soon- and she took in Fiora's sculpted arms that lay above her head, not too bulky but muscular enough for the hard work to show. Then crimson eyes locked with the embarrassed, smiling face, realizing with a mumble that, "You're a Goddamn angel…"

Fiora's grin only grew greater as Riven leaned in close and whispered, "You're _my_ Goddamn angel…"

And then the exile could hold herself back no more; she _needed_ to taste this wonderful woman _now_. Her lips darted to the pulse point, and Fiora moaned again as she sucked hard, marking the woman as her own. She ravaged her neck for what felt like ages, chewing the skin of her pronounced collarbone, creating countless, black and blue hickeys before finishing with a long, slow lick up the column of the woman's throat that made Fiora sigh.

She moved downward, finally ready to attend to the tantalizing breasts. She kneaded them, gently at first, then rougher. Riven descended, never once breaking eye contact as she took the right tit in her mouth, eliciting a breathy squeal. She rolled the nipple in her teeth, her left fingers synchronized, and when she began to suckle, Fiora's pupils disappeared behind her eyelids, biting her bottom lip. The Demacian's back arched upward, and Riven switched sides, licking and gnawing and pinching.

The dominant woman released the boob with a _pop!_ and resumed her journey downward. Her mouth ghosted sluggishly over Fiora's tummy, occasionally rewarding the duelist's patience with a peck.

She'd reached the waistband of The Grand Duelist's lacy, blood-red panties. She carefully hoisted the woman's slender legs over her shoulders, settling in to the covers of the bed. Riven didn't quite fit, with the mattress ending just above her knee, but she bent her legs and crossed them behind her to situate herself.

After slipping off the drenched garment, Riven stared in awe at the hot, sticky mess before her; Fiora was soaking wet. Arousal coated her slit, and when Riven's thumbs snaked around spotless thighs to spread the lips wide, strands of liquid love stretched the distance. Fiora needed this badly, but the exile wasn't finished with foreplay.

Trailing up the left leg, she caressed her inner thigh with her mouth, leaving bruises and marks on gleaming, virgin flesh, corrupting the woman's innocence. She turned around mid-thigh returned, only to skip over the waterfall to do the same up the right.

Riven stopped at her groin, hovering her face millimeters from Fiora's release. She looked up through the valley of the other woman's breasts to lock her gaze with beautiful blue.

Then she lowered and took all of Fiora into her mouth at once.

The gorgeous duelist gasped, an O-face seizing her expression, her hands flying from the sheets to the forest of platinum-blonde hair. Riven sucked at her lower lips, following up with several lascivious licks up the length of her slit, wetness pooling on her tongue. The Demacian's potent flavor was salty like skin with a sweet aftertaste. It was intoxicating, and Riven only stopped to tell a Fiora with a hand over her mouth, "Let it all out, babe. Say my name."

And Fiora did just that, screaming obscenities to the heavens. Riven's name was repeated over and over with that adorable, Demacian roll of the "R". Her constant moans and gasps sounded like the most beautiful symphony, and Riven vowed to drain every last little whimper from her petite pussy.

Back and forth and up and down the exile's tongue traveled, the wet muscle drowning in the damp folds, flicking the clitoris with the tip. The she went a little lower, rimming the duelist's pretty, soaked center before the tongue dove in, swirling around and around and around, then in and out, in and out, in and out. The pad of her thumb toyed with the swollen bud, and Riven lapped up the juices like a thirsty mutt.

Fiora's voice was high-pitched and her fingers dug into the exile's scalp as she spluttered, "~I- I am-!~"

The duelist's hips bucked wildly against the Noxian's tongue, the orgasm slamming into her lover fast and hard. Those thighs clamped around her head, preventing her from retreating, but Riven wasn't going anywhere. As wave after wave of pleasure crashed, Riven's lips stayed locked around Fiora's pussy, the exile enjoying the sensation of the duelist creaming into her mouth.

After a long period, Fiora stilled, and Riven finally released the woman with an audible smack. The Noxian surveyed the sweaty, heaving body of her lover, noticing the trail of bruises and hickeys with pride, staring affectionately at Fiora's closed, twitching eyelids and her mouth gasping for breath, head resting on its side. An obsidian halo of hair crowned her brow. The sight was absolutely divine, and Riven wouldn't trade anything for it.

She bent over her and leaned in until a blue, iris reveled itself. Riven dramatically licked her lips with a smile, then wiped her face with her hand and cleaned that too.

"You taste delicious."

No reply, just labored panting. She did stretch and interlock her fingers with Riven's.

She smiled. "That good, huh?"

It wasn't very sudden or fast, but Fiora reached up and tugged the blonde down for a searing French kiss. They parted after a good period of time, but Fiora didn't release her hold on Riven's neck.

Wheezing and loopy, she stuttered, "Your turn," and tried to roll. The effort was amusing, as all of the strength seemed to leave her being so she ended up flopping awkwardly to the side.

"You don't have to, darling. We can do it tomorrow-."

"No," Fiora breathlessly interjected. "No, I want you now." When Riven didn't budge, adopting an air of uncertainty, the duelist pleaded with big, puppy-dog eyes, "Please. You have done so much for me. Let me return ze favor."

Riven sighed in defeat; she couldn't resist the endearing nature of the request, so she looped her arms around her back, kissed her deeply, and rolled Fiora on top of her. The duelist took her sweet time, likely recuperating, and filled in the space with an enchanting make-out session. The exile was unimaginably horny, and she hoped the brunette bombshell would spare her the torture of foreplay and skip straight to fucking her.

Her lover started to slide down her body at a brusque pace, administering the same love to her toned figure as did the exile to her. Fiora was inexperienced but battle prowess bestowed upon her enhanced perception, and though she was obviously bone-tired, she still detected the slight arching of the back as she smooched Riven's collarbone. Pegging it for an erogenous zone, she nipped and trailed a digit along the embossed skin, her tingling touch lingering for long after when the Demacian blessed it with her presence.

" _~Mmmm…~_ " Riven sighed contentedly when a warm mouth closed around her rigid peaks followed by the soft massaging of her boobs. Little electric sparks whizzed up her spine as a tongue ran circles around her areolas before rubbing its rough texture all over the sensitive tits.

Fiora moved lower, her lips whispering against her until it found yet another weakness: the exile's ticklish bellybutton. Riven chuckled breathlessly, earning an amused glimmer in the duelist's eyes as her tongue rimmed her navel. She ceased and traveled further, only to be met by white, utilitarian panties. As Riven had done, she readjusted herself to lay prone between her legs.

When she settled in, she smiled at Riven's crotch, biting that bottom lip in that way the exile loved, gazing up at her with predatory hunger lurking in her icy-blue eyes. "~You are very, very wet, _mon amour_.~"

The sexuality of the tone made the Noxian shiver, her eyes close, and her head hit the pillow. "It's not my fault you're sexy," Riven whined.

And then she gasped as the tip of a finger traced her slit through her panties. The digit hooked under the article and pulled it away from her throbbing, molten core. Hands braced against her hips, and hot breath billowed onto her snatch.

Riven gutturally moaned, " _~Oh fuckinhell~,_ " and her mouth hung open as Fiora's tongue vigorously stroked her underside from the perineum to the clitoris, stopping to suckle on the engorged bundle of nerves. The duelist was apparently aware of the pain that could be caused if the bud was mishandled, and she treated it so carefully, wrapping her wet muscle around the blossom.

The exile brushed the hair from the focused Fiora's face and requested, " _~Ah~_ , darling, _~ah~_ , my clit isn't the only thing, _~ohfuckme~_ , isn't the only thing that needs some love _~mh, ohyeah~_ …"

The duelist's face lit up in understanding, and she lowered to attend to everything she'd been neglecting. Pleasure engulfed the exile's senses as her pussy received renewed attention. Her curtains were tugged and suckled and massaged, a hot, coercive tongue dipping into her folds and penetrating her entrance with its sultry heat. The motions were unskilled but there was so much effort and willingness to make her lover feel good the exile couldn't help but smile.

Riven crooned the duelist's name, an immense, thrilling ball of sensual satisfaction growing bigger and bigger and bigger. It burst in no time at all, sending her screaming over the edge. Her hips rocked, her face flushed, and her thighs spasmed as pleasure surged over and around and through her body and being as her core was worked to oblivion and back.

As she lay recovering from that sensational orgasm, another exhausted, sweaty form flopped onto her, covering her in kisses as she basked in the afterglow. She smiled and embraced the character, sighing in relief.

"How did I do?"

Riven grinned wider and nuzzled her forehead. "Wonderful," was all she said.

And though they were sweaty and overheated and the bed was the unfortunate victim of a hurricane, Fiora spooned into her lover beneath the soaked sheets, Riven wrapping both arms around her and cuddling her tightly.

"Goodnight, mon cherié."

"Goodnight, darling."

ooooo

 **There's your porn, you sick freaks. Look forward to more of it as the coming chapters are all fluffy and happy and annoyingly devoid of story because they're purpose is to take up time because of lack of foresight. Say that in one breath. On a more serious note, how did I do with the whole romance thing? Was it rushed? It felt rushed. Type me a comment and I promise to at least look at it!**


	20. Chapter 20- The Morning After

**I swear to god, this isn't turning into a smut story, I just like writing it. There'll be plenty of fluffy stuff and whatnot, instead of everyone licking everyone's privates. However, tomorrow is Halloween weekend, and I'm likely going to utilize the sexier skins, so you know what that means. Sorry to flood you guys with three consecutive chapters of smut, but I promise the story picks up. Like, REALLY picks up if I have my way. Anyways, leave a comment, and to Gmp1000: I really appreciate your support and critique!**

Untroubled. Lucid. At peace. These were not terms that could ever be used to describe the state of mind of The Grand Duelist, but as she dozed tranquilly, her thoughts at ease and her sanity intact, they perfectly described her situation. As her eyelids fluttered open, heavy with sleep, she discovered why.

Fiora lay on her side, black hair with two streaks of pinkish-purple billowing out before her eyes. A nightstand silently stood next to the bed, and the muted walls encased the room in gloom. Sunrays peeked through the curtains that she knew draped over the large windows behind her, and the tinkle of silver trays carried by hired men and women echoed through the halls. None of this was out of the ordinary. Except…

A warm, brawny arm, darker in tone, hooked around her stomach and held her snug to the oven whose strong figure spooned her comparatively lightweight form. Her legs interlocked with her lover's, rear nested snugly into the other woman's hips, her lower back against the woman's stomach, her shoulder blades pressed against an ample bosom. She felt lips, a rounded chin, and a ball-point nose press against the back of her head, steady, warm breaths stirring her raven locks and lulling the woman with its kind, gentle nature that reflected the creator.

Everything about them was warm; the stained covers they slept under trapped their warmth to cook them pleasantly. Their long legs basked in the warmth, and the contact of their privates was warm in multiple, delectable fashions. The breasts against her back were warm, the arm drawing her in to a pool of heat warmed her belly to its core. The air flowing through her hair was warm, the muscular bicep supporting her neck was warm. All of the sensations were warm, her chest filled with soothing warmth, the wide, wide smile that spawned involuntarily on a narrow face was so warm.

The smile broadened as her love shifted, bringing her in closer to the toasty coziness of their cuddling. Then the nose disappeared momentarily, and Fiora lazily turned her head with a frown to investigate why it had left. She twisted right into a passionate kiss as Riven's lips descended, claiming the smaller woman's. Her frown disappeared, eyelids closing again, and she welcomed the hot, perverse tongue that wrestled hers into submission.

And suddenly the warmth was on top of her, smooshing her into the cushy mattress and trapping her in a sandwich of immense heat as Riven's powerful, built body compressed her thinner frame. Fiora didn't attempt to push her love away; instead she welcomed the crushing, sexy weight that simultaneously protected and dominated her. She grinned in satisfaction into their kiss that grew sloppier by the second as her arms curled under her lover's armpits and pressed the other, smiling woman into her eager mouth and body, desperately amplifying that heavenly, near-suffocation she so desired more of.

The exile complied, and their embrace turned lustful, Riven grinding her hips harshly into the captive who willingly returned the movements. Everywhere flesh slid against flesh, which was everywhere, little sparks erupted and the harder Fiora pressed, the hotter and longer they burned. So she pressed and pressed and pressed, moaning from the increasing intensity of their lascivious cuddling, hands roaming and nails scoring. The duelist's palms grasped taut cheeks, and a lecherous grin spread as she raised a hand and slapped them hard.

Riven bucked into her without releasing her battered lips, pushing Fiora down and murmuring something between a growl and a moan. The duelist giggled into the kiss and repeated the move, three more fleshy smacks muffled by the covers and three more times Fiora was forcefully shoved downward in the most wonderful way. She purred, heart racing in anticipation. Surely now, it wouldn't be long before Riven ceased with the foreplay and fucked the living-

"Eep!"

It wasn't from either of them, and when her exile stopped and glanced at the gaping doorway, she mirrored the movement and noticed the young maid in black and white staring in shock. The duelist was going to raise and assure the woman that this was just a misunderstanding, that it wasn't what it looked like, but then she looked back at her lover who hadn't budged.

The woman above glared with a predatory gleam at the intruder, threatening to tear her to pieces if she didn't move. There was hostility, but there was also unrestrained greed and lusty possessiveness, warning the invader that Fiora was _hers_ , that only _she_ could touch the prone woman and make her scream. Selfish, animalistic craving flooded her crimson eyes, and Fiora felt something else flood as she realized she held the power to reduce the woman above her to her most basic desires. It was touching, and her heart swelled.

The maid disappeared down the hallway; the threat gone, the huntress returned her gaze to witness big, sexual, breathtaking, icy-blue irises staring up at her above a mouth that hung agape in fierce yearning.

"Take me," Fiora panted, loopy and so insanely aroused.

Riven obeyed the real master.

The woman above grunted once, then reengaged their tango, taking Fiora's tongue between her lips and sensually sucking. The woman below moaned, her eyes lolling upward and eyelids closing.

Her exile released her tongue, and the muscle wiggled openly between the retreating Noxian and the pursuing duelist, beckoning the other woman to continue the marvelous ministrations. But then that mouth supped on her collarbone, teeth gently biting the pasty flesh to leave a mark Fiora would wear with pride. There were flames where her exile touched, the burning, scorching delights raising her temperature and turning her on more so that she already was.

A path of ugly, beautiful hickeys lead downward as Riven's ashen-haired head descended her body and halted at the pale, malleable melons. Lips closed around the rock-hard peaks, and Fiora whined loudly, wishing that that mouth would move lower and ravage her till she could no longer breathe. But her exile lowered no more, locking lips with her nipples and suckling the teats as if trying to draw milk from her flushed bosom.

A finger brushed her stomach, and Fiora yelped in surprise at the sudden contact. Her eyes open and demanding answers, she found them in the blood-red eyes of her lover staring mischievously into her own.

' _Oh, yes. Oh,_ _ **yes**_ ,' Fiora thought, perfectly understanding the situation. She'd experimented before, and was trembling in anticipation at the thought that this time, it would be someone else's fingers giving her what she wanted, what she absolutely _needed_.

The nail returned and ghosted down her abdomen, slowly, gently, making her wait for Heaven to ring her number and bring her to the gates. It arrived at its destination, and tapped delicately on her hairless crotch, forcing Fiora to endure the agony of denial.

The pad of the finger finally granted her a small mercy, gently smooshing her clitoris and rubbing the nub with concern. The duelist let loose a sharp intake of breath as the digit ground her bud with increasing pressure, rolling the poor thing round and round in a torturously teasing way; this was only partially what she required.

Then, eventually, two fingers dipped shallowly into her folds, swimming in messy excitement that coated her thighs and the other woman's fingers. She gasped, and the invaders applied more pressure, swirling and creating gloppy, succulently naughty sounds that were almost as naughty as the phrases and words that left the delirious woman's mouth. If this playing in her fleshy curtains felt this good, how would she handle what she truly desired?

All movements halted, including the area of her breasts. A single finger sluggishly circled her entrance, and Fiora prepared herself. But nothing could prepare her for the luscious, breathtaking sensation as the digit gradually pried open her puckered hole and slithered into her, creating mouthwatering, delicious friction she'd never felt before. Simulaneously, Riven sucked in as much of the duelist's boob as she could fit in her mouth, rough tongue covering the smooth breast in saliva.

Fiora was choking, high pitch wheezing emanating from her throat, unable to breath from the sensation but her lover didn't stop, and the duelist didn't want her too, needing her to continue. The stationary finger wriggled, allowing the Demacian a brief moment to adjust; the initial pain receded leaving pure, unadulterated pleasure. She thought the feeling amazing, wondering how it could get any better and then oh _god_ the finger _moved_! Slow, rhythmic strokes set fire to her insides, and her spine arched, aided by her exile's free hand splayed on her lower back that pushed more of her into the other woman's mouth.

" _~Oh, oui, baisez-moi!~_ " she cried at the top of her lungs, encouraging her lover to increase the pace. _Oh, yes, fuck me!_

The digit increased its tempo, long fingers pumping in and out, in and out, in and out as the woman wailed. An incredible, lewd _shlick! shlick! shlick!_ joined the caterwauling, and the sound was the most mind-boggling, pulse-quickening melody she'd heard. Every long, harsh stroke, the finger dove knuckle-deep, and every near-endless stroke out she tensed for more of that phenomenal abuse. The texture of the finger plunging into her deep, silken core was coarse, and all of the callouses and wrinkles and cracks scraped wickedly against her velvety walls.

And then a second finger suddenly joined, and Fiora found the air to scream as ecstasy engulfed her very being. Her mouth wouldn't close, her voice wouldn't stop screeching, moaning, or crying her lover's name, her legs clamped down on her lover's hips as two fingers aggressively plundered the depths of her pussy, drawing forth a well of juices that spattered the soiled sheets with every vigorous thrust.

Both Riven and Fiora were soaked. A sheen of sweat encased them both, their slippery bodies colliding and crushing and mashing and grinding in all of the best, most perverted ways. The duelist's thighs and the exile's abs were doused in Fiora's thick lubricant, and trails of spittle ran down the duelist's bruised breasts as Riven practically devoured her bosom.

The orgasm tore through Fiora's frame with no warning. Her veins turned to molten lava, her heartbeat nearly bursting from her chest. Stars flecked her vision, and the fingers fucking her into oblivion pumped harder and faster into her creamy core. Euphoria was all she knew then and there as the woman she loved crashed their lips together, tears of pleasure streaming down the soft cheeks of the gleeful duelist. Her hips bucked violently, and her walls clamped down on the unrelenting intruders that filled every nook and cranny with that wonderful warmth.

Riven didn't slow down; if anything she sped up and didn't stop until the duelist came again, spluttering incoherent phrases and hugging her exile tighter.

' _My god… zat was amazing…_ ' Fiora gaped as her Noxian pulled out, the duelist's insides contracting from the memory of the digits that once pummeled her so tenaciously.

An emotional, teary-eyed brunette smiled uncontrollably as her Riven pressed sweet, butterfly kisses all over her face then down her body, as if to apologize for the soreness the woman above had caused. That just made the duelist grin wider; she adored the ache she felt now as it reminded her of the pleasure she'd experienced not seconds beforehand. The kisses ceased, and her exile, satisfied with her performance, hugged the panting woman whose mind was muddled. Riven's face nuzzled into the damp crease of Fiora's neck, her weight once again pleasantly bearing down upon the duelist.

Her exile's voice whispered against her skin. "Good morning, angel."

"~Hmmm.~" she hummed contentedly. "Good morning, mon amour."

The fluffy, Noxian head rose and gazed at the duelist, the woman's handsome face confused. "What does…" she was hesitant, for whatever reason. "What does that mean?"

"What does what mean, mon amour?" Fiora questioned quizzically.

"That. What does… m-mon armor… mean?" she butchered the phrase.

But her effort was cute, and the duelist half chuckled- half giggled at her exile's botched pronunciation. The brunette ran her fingers through the short, tussled patch of platinum hair as she stared into eyes that were endlessly expressive. "Why, 'Mon amour' means 'my love'."

Riven liked that. Riven liked that a lot. A giddy smile and, "Well I love you too, ~ _mon amour_ ~."

Fiora laughed. "But zat is redundant, dear!"

Then her exile kissed her, the warrior's palm crawling up to cup her cheek, and the duelist forgot what was so funny. Lost in the embrace, the two lovers lounged for quite some time, sunrays silhouetting their entwined bodies. The duo eventually parted, a bridge of saliva connecting their lips.

The duelist sniffed. "Whew! You stink."

A roguish smirk in response. "You _like_ it."

Fiora shrugged her shoulders. "Perhaps," she admitted. "However, I do not zink ze ozers appreciate your musk as I do, mon amour."

"Good point." Then Fiora yelped in surprise as Riven's muscular arms curled around her back and rear and hoisted her up off of the mattress. Her exile, with the duelist grasped tightly in her arms, plopped onto the floor with an unexpectedly light _thud!_ and queried, "Then to the bathroom we go!"

Fiora snickered and held fast. As they neared the washroom, Riven made to enter and the duelist threw in, "We shall use mine. It is much better zan ze guest."

"Alright, then," her exile replied, rerouting to set sail for Fiora's room. The blonde navigated the corridors with ease, despite her lack of sight. After passing many a slack-jawed servant and gracing the household with a view of Riven's ass (an ass Fiora thought to be undeniably _superb_ ) as she tromped up the stairs to the floor above, they arrived.

Her lover gently set her down, arms still draped around her waist, and Riven's eyes widened as they surveyed the room. "Damn. So this is what you've been hiding from me."

The duelist twisted in her exile's loose clasp and examined what she'd "been hiding" from the woman before her. To her, it appeared normal. But then again, she'd lived in luxury her whole life, so she could see how a soldier might gawk at her lavish quarters.

The high ceiling was standard with every room, but here the house crest that evenly speckled the ceiling was plated silver, and the walls embossed with intricate designs of rhombuses corralling roses were a dark, brooding ultramarine that absorbed all light. Where the ceiling met the ocean blue and the ocean blue met the floor, white molding concealed the corners with their typical, architectural flair and highlighted the darkness. The floor wasn't wooden, but a thick rug that covered all with its poofy texture and its beige tint. A desk of painted wood housed stationary and not much else on the far wall, and on the adjacent to the left several feet passed the entrance was the doorway that lead to a closet as spacious as the largest guest room which held some of the most extravagant dresses, costumes, pairs of shoes, and accessories known to Demacia. However, most would've collected a thick layer of dust by now had the maids not been so attentive to every detail, as Fiora was only ever interested in the dueling uniform she wore now.

The duelist craned her head to gaze at the assorted dressers, weapon racks, and stands of armor to settle on the bed. The bedposts ascended to tickle the clouds of chrome, and from the wooden bars between them hung curtains woven of a glazed, dark blue material that billowed without wind. A mahogany frame held a mattress under whose cobalt sheets she'd spent many lonely nights. That warm joy seized her heart again as she realized she would not be dozing alone.

The duelist turned and caught the attention of her lover. "Zis is where you sleep now, yes?" It was more of a hopeful question, but her exile, thankfully, didn't pick up on the thinly veiled uncertainty in her voice.

Riven smiled mischievously. "Mhm. 'Sleep'. I'm sure."

Fiora returned the playful grin. "Among ozer zings, of course." She stepped away and pivoted to saunter toward her personal bathroom, her hips with a sway that dared her exile to stare. Over her shoulder, she curled her index finger forward, gesturing for Riven to follow.

She wasted no time in preparing the shower. Steamy vapor surged in dense waves over the khaki, stone tiles of the floor, diamond water jetting from multiple golden nozzles shaped as flowers, ornate petals gleaming in the bright bulb of the fixture in the middle of the ceiling.

Fiora entered first, relishing the way stinging heat coated her lithe frame, soaking her to the bone. Her arms were above her head, fingers diving through inky locks, when familiar hands straddled her waist and a curvy body pressed against her from behind. Cracked lips grazed her neck, and with parted lips she tilted her head. The lips sucked the flesh delicately, the hands drifted everywhere, caressing her abdomen, her inner and outer thighs, and her chest where it lingered a little longer.

The duelist turned, both hands on her exile's neck and pulled her down to kiss. Fiora loved this, this swapping of fluids and passionate jig of tongues, this hug where no distance between their slick bodies was close enough and so they would endlessly push into and tug at and squeeze the other so tightly. This cuddling where breathing was less a priority than maintaining the hold, this sloppy locking of lips and mumbling of moans and gasps into their fused oral caverns.

Sometime, somehow they'd pooled the rich, lavender body wash into their palms and gracelessly lathered each other with the soap, hands gliding over silky skin soft as satin. Their soapy tits rubbed desperately against each other, attempting to grind as much friction from the smooth flesh as possible and though it was vain, neither stopped the action. Then came the shampoo, a potent agent that smelled of roses. Their fingers ran carelessly through their hair, strands catching between digits and pulling in a way that was painful and delectably pleasurable.

Between sweet, syrupy kisses, Riven commented, "So this is _~shluuurp~_ why you smell _~shluuurp~_ so nice _~shlurp, mhm shluuurp~_."

Even though they were so clean their brilliance blinded the blind, they stayed and furiously made out. And when they finally exited, they didn't shed the drenching water onto fluffy towels; they knew they'd require another shower when they were done with each other.

ooooo

The man responsible for Fiora's short temper arrogantly smirked a distance away, restlessly shifting on the balls of his booted feet in his expensive jade overcoat, pleated ruffles of his ascot pompously protruding to bathe in the vermillion froth of the cut that would be expertly placed at his Adam's apple that bobbed so pretentiously whenever the man spoke. He glared alone at the opposite end of the Hall of Blades, being the only male in his House. If his egotistical willingness to throw himself upon her blade was any indication, there had been more at one time or another but they'd all foolishly perished.

' _Like fazer, like son_ ,' the duelist darkly brewed in the turmoil of her mind.

The duelist was also the lone occupier of her end of the firm rug, other than the bystanders, but the freaks who justified bloodshed were ubiquitous and would never disappear as long as there was someone to die for their amusement. Fiora and Riven had had a bit of a falling out only minutes ago, and the conversation repeated itself over and over in her head.

Their first argument involved the man before her. Seconds before they were to sully the sheets of her mattress for the first time, one of her most trustworthy maids had interrupted their journey from bathroom to bed and informed the surprised couple of the more surprising intruder that had waltzed through the doors as if they'd owned the estate. A challenger with murder on his mind, he'd insulted her honor and the earth she tread upon.

This was not a unique occurrence: many, many had had the audacity to dispute her existence. But this man had gone a step further. After determined pools of amber deceit had squinted at her immediate refusal, he'd then declared Ammdar de Laurent the sorriest swordsman in existence. This was far from true. Who did he think had taught her the fancy maneuvers she would use to kill him? The situation was immensely ironic.

A hit to her ego, Fiora could take. However, a hit toward the only family she had left? That was uncalled for, and completely off-limits.

Her lover had disputed her actions loudly. The blonde hadn't disagreed with the duelist's tactics in months because Fiora hadn't accepted any invitations in months. They'd both thought the brunette a changed woman, but here she was, blade at the hip and ready to add another name to the roster of people she'd slain. Riven wasn't furious, but she'd been tremendously disappointed with Fiora's regression into violence. Suffice to say, the duelist was sexually frustrated and the ache in her loins only served to remind her of how much she hated this man for creating a rift between herself and the one she loved most.

Riven was not absent, despite their current discord. On the balcony above, she leaned out and lay her chin on crossed arms, and the brunette was painfully cognizant of her crimson gaze searing into her back.

"Are you even fit to fight, woman?" the man mocked, pulling the duelist from her recollections as she realized he'd been talking.

"What did you say?" Fiora queried simply, and the audience tittered.

The man dramatically threw up his arms in faux exasperation, right hand wielding an elegant rapier he didn't deserve to use. He turned and with cocksure attitude tinged with manic sadism told the duelist, "I said, 'When I have slain you, I will find your foolish brother and run my blade through him as well.' What do you say to that?"

Fiora practically snarled, "I say zat Ammdar will run free as long as I live. And I assure you, Monsieur Adrian, I will live."

Her confidence spooked him, but he concealed his fear well. "I think not!" Then he nodded adamantly to the referee, who in turn looked expectantly to Fiora. But she didn't give him any clear indication, so the man interpreted the slight bobbing of her head as "affirmative".

"En garde!"

Her opponent swished the air twice, once forward, once back, and then assumed a stance.

Fiora's hand grasped the hilt of her custom weapon, drawing two inches of bluesteel that radiated from the immaculate edge. She would have followed through, feet spread, arm behind the back, and blade fully drawn and aimed at the brat before her had she not glimpsed her lover.

One glance was all it took, and suddenly she was staring upward from the corner of her vision. Those eyes of hers were so expressive with so many faces and tints and shades. They were a merciless, bloody crimson when she was ready to kill, shone with the fair, unbreakable conviction of burgundy when she needed a calm demeanor to analyze a predicament, and gleamed a kind, passionate red filled with love only when she gazed at Fiora. Now they glimmered with tense, fearful apprehension; she was clearly distraught, and the duelist's gut wrenched as she realized it was her own fault that the other woman was so severely conflicted over her choices.

But surely this was the way? If not for honor, then to protect her brother?

Fiora's eyes returned to the man haughtily bouncing on his toes. Did her brother need protection?

Then the brunette recalled something her exile had said.

" _What would he want you to do if he were here?_ "

The Noxian was right, she concluded. In the end, all of this was for him. It was his name she was defending. It was his life she was trying to toy with, and he most certainly would not appreciate an honor killing in his name. He was gone now; just like Papa, he no longer held any influence over her choices. House Laurent was hers solely, and the consequences for any decision she made only affected her. If killing this man, this Monsieur Adrian, possessed no benefit for anyone who cared, why was she doing it? The last she'd checked, killing a man without reason was rightfully considered murder.

A second thought occurred. The reason there was no one to care about this duel was because Ammdar was out freely experiencing all that life could offer, and the reason Ammdar was absent was because he trusted her not commit to mistakes as she had so frequently done in the past. If this man died at her hands, her brother must have been incorrect, and if he ever learned of this, he would surely return. Fiora couldn't deprive him of his freedom after he'd tasted its succulent flavor. It just wasn't right. None of this was right.

A sigh from the brunette. The shimmering steel disappeared, and the crowd gasped as Fiora wordlessly pivoted, then trounced up the flight of stair behind her.

"Where do you think you're going?!" the man shouted indignantly. Heavy footfalls indicated that he was trying to follow her.

Her journey up marbles stairs was halfway complete when she pivoted, her defiant posture blotting out the dull rays casted from the mosaic behind her. Her blistering glare razed whatever ice-cold irises passed over, eyebrows arched, and scrunched mouth contorted into the fiercest snarl anyone had ever laid eyes upon.

Nothing could compare to her tone, however, as she spoke to Adrian. With the faintest traces of dismissal and disdain- not enough to be blaringly overt, but just enough to unexplainably boil the blood- , absolute abhorrence for the man specifically and for the people witnessing the spectacle as a whole seethed through perfect white teeth.

"You are not worz ze time it takes to clean my blade of your blood!" she roared with ugly rage. "And furzermore, anyone who wishes to challenge me, as did zis incompetent, craven, sorry excuse for a _swordsman_ , I will have you collected by ze Demacian Royal Guard and zrown so far into ze palace dungeons, even ze great huntress Shauna Vayne will be unable to save you from ze horrors zat lurk in ze dark!"

It was a very real threat, and everyone knew it. With that, she turned and stomped away- the only noise in the deathly quiet room.

Her stilettoes clacked against the marble landing, and here she was met with a pleasant sight: a Riven bearing a grin so wide, it almost spilled off the edges of her face. She went to hug the duelist, but her grin faltered as she remembered that everyone was staring at them. Riven hadn't forgotten what put her in this position in the first place, and she seemed unwilling to make the same error a second time.

Awkwardly, the blonde rolled her shoulders in discomfort. Under her breath, "I'm proud of you."

But Fiora was tired of the games. She couldn't give a damn about the crowd's homophobia if she tried, and even if they managed to hide their relationship from the spectators now, how many servants had witnessed their naked stroll through the hallways that morning? The staff of House Laurent were not slaves; they could come and go as they please as long as all chores were accounted for, and she happened to know a few of the women were infamous for their big mouths. Their efforts to cover up would be futile, and would only cause mutual suffering.

That was why she didn't pause as she hauled herself up and over the last step, the clomp of her heels the only sound in the room as she engulfed a shocked Riven in a kiss as hot as the room was dreary.

Stunned, suspenseful silence.

Fiora parted briefly, and gazed into Riven's eyes. She'd already made great, crashing waves. How much different could a tsunami be?

"I love you."

An outcry of epic proportions.

Nobles and drunks alike united to battle a common enemy: defeat the gays. The way in which they forgot their differences to achieve a single goal was almost inspiring; if only this was possible for literally anything else. The Royal Guard was present as always, for duels to the death were lawful but highly regulated, but they alone couldn't stave off hordes of furious audience members. Thankfully, the Progressive party had made an appearance, and with a clamor that reverberated from the drab walls of the Hall of Blades they fought off the crowd with valor only heard of in hymns and tales of heroes.

The duo ran hand in hand, and though they were running for their lives, they couldn't be happier. The din of the battle gradually disappeared, and finally they barged into the duelist's room, slamming the heavy door behind them and bolting it.

They embraced once more, hands fumbling at straps, lips locked in a messy "kiss".

Exhilarated and smiling, Riven mumbled through their relentless smooching, "I believe _~smack~_ we have _~shluurp~_ something we need _~smack~_ to finish."

Fiora grinned back. "Zat is correct _~shluurp~_ _mon amour_."


	21. Chapter 21- The Harrowing

**Happy Halloween! Probably the last smut you'll see until another, much later time! PLEASE leave a comment and stay away from spooky scary skeletons! Edit: I forgot to say THANK YOU to everyone who has supported me! I'm almost to 20 followers, and the fact that there at least 19 of you out there who like my story so much that they want to be regularly updated on the release dates absolutely boggles my mind! Thank you so much! Also: a chapter that is almost entirely lemon is the longest chapter I've written for this story. What does that say about me?**

 **4 Months Ago**

"What is it?" Fiora queried, her long, sharp face appearing puzzled.

The carving into the pumpkin was intended to resemble something so simple, the exile couldn't possibly fuck it up: the classic bedsheet ghost with two circles for eyes and one for the mouth. However, it seemed that Riven was _too_ good at accomplishing the impossible, and as the Noxian rolled the orange fruit in her sticky palms, fingering the contours between the smooth, exaggerated ripples, she concluded that it was not a ghost, but an abomination so hideous she felt the urge to burn the poor creature and end its misery right then and there.

"Well," the woman sighed in defeat, admitting, "I'm not entirely sure."

The cool autumn air swept over the duo as they whittled away on the front porch, at least a dozen more untouched pumpkins scattered before the bottom step. The fruits kept vigil, hues and shapes ranging from the iconic, bright orange spheres with green stalks to elongated squash of a dark emerald, their stems curling jovially in loopy paths that tangled with one another. The sky was cloudless, and the sun shone down upon an invisible ground cloaked in a fervid palette of pale yellows, rich browns and shades of beige, and a smattering of cerise to add an appropriate zing that mirrored the tingling temperature. Columns of wind disturbed the crackly crust, leaves briefly taking flight before being discarded and floating to join the others in a pattern so arbitrary only Mother Nature could understand its meaning. Dying gardens of roses shriveled and decayed in mass graves, and trees devoid of their lively headdresses stood solemn and motionless, sorrowfully mourning their losses. There was no other living being in sight; no servants or staff tended to any landscaping, and the wrought-iron fence down the road was eerily without audience.

The two lovers didn't mind, though; they only required the presence of the other.

"Hmm," the duelist contemplated. "Perhaps…" she leaned over the exile here, "If you were to cut here and here…"

The brunette dressed casually in a navy-blue sweater with sleeves bunched at her elbows and gray sweatpants tried to apply her dexterous blade to the fruit, but a hand clamped on her wrist.

"Hey, stop that!" Riven exclaimed in mock protest.

"What? I am trying to help!" Fiora chuckled as she struggled to "help" her girlfriend. No matter what strategy she enacted to circumvent the exile's defenses, Riven stood firm and deflected all advances to harm her esoteric work of art. Lighthearted giggling paired with deeper, sincere laughing echoed across the vast expanse of carpeted lawn as they wrestled for dominance.

"Stop it! It's fine as it is!" the exile commanded with an amused grin.

"But it is so ugly!" the duelist countered, trying to draw a reaction from the blonde woman.

Riven hadn't budge from her original position, being the stronger and the heavier of the two, but Fiora would not yield, and even when her arms were trapped to the side in a bear hug, she still fussed. With agile grace, the Noxian's arm reached down to grasp the other woman's wrist and with pressure just light enough to pry the knife away without causing pain, she successfully disarmed the writhing duelist. The kitchen blade clattered down the stone steps and rested harmlessly among its future victims.

Fiora, still captured in a tight embrace, now lay with her back in Riven's lap, the exile bending over to keep the woman contained. Their faces were so close, and their mischievous gleam turned passionate and warm as their lips softly collided, their eyelids shutting reflexively. The vice-grip around the duelist's arms loosened as the kiss deepened, hands dirtied with pumpkin guts gliding over their backs, smearing the gooey past carelessly onto their clothes.

They sat there, the duelist's form lazily snuggled up into the exile's, for a long while, romantically treasuring every moment spent in each other's arms. Their faces separated slowly, shallow, heated breaths warming the other's lips, eyelids simultaneously fluttering open seconds later to gaze lovingly into the other's eyes.

A smitten grin spread across the duelist's face as she commented suggestively, "You know, if zis were one of my novels, we would lay here and make love till ze sun set beneaz ze horizon."

Riven's brow quirked. "You read fuck books?"

Fiora slyly tapped the exile's nose. "I did not always have you to bring me satisfaction, mon amour."

"That's hot," Riven commented, earning a smile and a playful bat to the rear of her head.

Hands roamed more freely, and when the Noxian's rough digits began to slide beneath the waistband, Fiora's dainty hand halted her movements. Her voice was stern, yet still compassionate and understanding of Riven's wants and needs. "Not quite yet, mon chérie. We must finish ze carving of ze pumpkins before sundown, lest we be vulnerable to ze spirits and spooks."

Riven seemed mildly disappointed, but she perked up when the duelist's hand guided hers over the prone woman's clothed crotch once, then whispered seductively into the blonde's ear, " _~When we are finished, we will do whatever you desire~_."

Fiora tugged at her earlobe, then retreated with a naughty smile. They kissed once more, the duelist humming contentedly, then sat up and retrieved her knife and two more gourds.

Riven stared at her lover's spectacular ass as she descended, noting the swing of her rear as she stepped lower and lower. Fiora was such a tease.

ooooo

The 18th of October in every province of Valoran marked the beginning of The Harrowing. On this day every calendar year, the jealous moon would begin its feast on the glorious sun, biting off piece by piece as the month passed. In this time where the purifying rays of sunshine were suppressed by the black orb in the sky, the children of the moon, the pale ghosts eternally rattling their silver chains and the spirits envious of the living, the necrotic corpses with sunken eyes and decaying bodies who ambled on wobbly legs or crawled with twisted arms, the sanguine vampires that lapped greedily from the blood pooling from their terrified victims' ravaged jugulars, the werewolves who howled in agony as hair split through flesh, bones breaking and contorting to reform into gnarly, imposing figures of inhuman strength and animal instinct; they all walked the earth beneath the sable shadow of their Mother the Moon, preying upon the races of beings who dared to shun the Lunar Deity. On the first day, on the 18th of October, there were few creatures of nefarious origin. But as the 13 Days of the Moon passed, diabolical fiends and sinister demons spawned with greater and greater magnitude until the climax, where, on the 31st of October, the Moon would launch the annual large-scale invasion of the Overworld, and the people of Runeterra would be forced to take up arms and stave off the armies of Hell for 13 more days. Then, on November the 13th, the Sun would rise again and cleanse the surface of the earth with its scorching vengeance, and the people would celebrate and give thanks for another week.

Or so the legend goes, at least.

Riven never invested much faith in legend, and considering that on every other Harrowing she'd lived through, she'd seen not a wink of paranormal activity outside of the occasional bump in the night, but those occurred anytime. However, she wasn't completely dismissive; there was still that doubt that plagued even the most immovable individuals, that curious "what if".

As is the norm, not every culture interpreted every little detail with the same gravity and urgency. Demacia, ever the shining beacon of hope, celebrated The Harrowing with opulent banquets hosted by gregarious nobles. The 31st was not a day to fear or to prepare for; instead it was a night where children of all ages would bang the iron knockers to decorated doors in the hopes that the inhabitants would toss sugary treats into their sacks of sweets, and the ritzier districts promised liquor and escorts to the older crowd. Truly, it was a night anticipated by everyone.

This would be the first year that the exile would don a costume. She hadn't planned on it, but after their little stunt a couple months ago, all eyes had focused on the couple of House Laurent. They were the talk of the town, gossip spreading like a roaring wildfire. To some, they were an example of the villainous scum that had infiltrated the high ranks of society, and daily protests screamed at the Laurent mansion. To others, they were heroes fighting the good fight, and for the weeks following the young Demacian's public exit of the metaphorical closet, the gangs of clashing ideals violently battered the other with words and eventually weapons outside her safeguarding iron enclosure. The Guard was called not once, nor twice, but a solid 14 consecutive days to disband the bloody brawling. Several days before the beginning of the Harrowing, the head of House Moreau, a prominent figure in the LGBT movement, had approached them one dreary morning and invited them to what would be one of the largest, most lavish parties of the year. Because of their contributions to the Progressive Party ("We contributed to ze Progressive Party?" Fiora had asked), they would be the guests of honor. It was too great an offer to refuse, and Riven couldn't very well arrive in her daily apparel.

The more important factor that ultimately swayed her decision was her accidental discovery of her lover's ensemble. Her intentions had been innocent enough; she simply wanted to call her lover to a late lunch, and without a second though she'd thrown open the doors to Fiora's room- to _their_ room- only to witness a surprised Fiora returning to the room clad in her costume.

Stilettoes unlike those she usually wore- these were longer, blacker, taller, _sexier_ \- encapsulated tiny feet. Black, lacy, thigh high stockings halted inches below a grey, pinstripe miniskirt, and a tantalizing strip of creamy flesh revealed itself between the two garments. A matching button-up jacket with cuffs tucked just beneath the elbows splayed open at the chest, gifting the world with a startling amount of perfect, slightly pink globes. And at the bottom crease of the considerable cleavage, a lacy, black brassiere peeked out, maddeningly teasing the exile with its subtle promise for more. A win-red scarf wrapped around the long throat Riven loved to feast on, highlighting the white collar it nested in, and the red article hung to mid-thigh. Upon Fiora's face was a pair of simple yet sophisticated, rectangular reading glasses that settled on the bridge of her nose, and her raven hair streaked with passionate red draped over one eye, leaving a single, heart-pounding blue iris to stare out. The rest of her locks were pulled into a bun that sat far back and high up on the duelist's head, the bob pinned with a wooden pencil. Glossy lips, fingernails, and heavily-but-skillfully-applied eyeshadow bore the same hue as that streak in her hair. Her pretty face wasn't caked in makeup, but there were plenty of cosmetic readjustments to complete the picture.

Riven wanted to bend her over the desk in the corner and fuck her right then, choking her with that lengthy strip of fabric as the vixen gasped for more as she knew the duelist would, but with patience and self-control she couldn't possibly possess, she refrained from doing anything other than shifting, crossing her arms, and whistling.

Fiora's expression tried to say, "Really?" while the faint smile that tugged at the corners of those thick lips begged, "Come at me."

"Someone's looking fine as Hell," Riven had teased. Needless to say, the exile had thoroughly enjoyed the midday's desert, though it wasn't wrapped up in what was supposed to be a "Headmistress" costume. That would come several nights later; that would be tonight.

That event alone influenced the Noxian to start searching for something to wear, preferably in something that did the things Fiora's costume did to her.

After tireless searching up and down Demacian streets, after ducking into countless stores and boutiques, after nearly throwing in the towel and likely disappointing her love with a bland, unimaginative getup, her eyes happened upon a mannequin in the sill of a rather sleazy establishment. It was what she wanted: foxy, eye-catching, and, most importantly, it explored a specific kink of the sheltered Fiora, a kink that had been gradually coaxed from the woman over a good period of time. It would be the most revealing uniform she'd ever worn, but the benefits would exceed the costs.

The man behind the counter was an odd individual, as most in this business usually were, with quick eyes and that ubiquitous rapey element, but after close examination the product seemed quality and she left knowing he was watching her leave. The garments had been tucked away in her personal satchel, safe from the eyes of her lover until the time was right.

And the right time was now. It was the late evening of October 31st; they were expected to show at the House Moreau celebrations in less than an hour. For all that Fiora knew, Riven would attend in her normal clothes, and the exile struggled through the veiled disappointment in her eyes so she could properly surprise her.

Fiora was currently preparing herself for the ball, entrenching herself behind the wooden door of their washroom. It was the perfect opportunity, and Riven seized the advantage, scampering to the sack beneath her bed. One zipper, several annoying straps, and a few muffled curse words later, the Noxian had buttoned and tied everything that needed to be tied and buttoned. Using a hand mirror she'd stashed earlier, she hastily and purposefully over-applied lipstick- a hue she thought would look excellent smudged between unblemished thighs- and dabbed the smallest amount of powder on her cheeks for maximum effect, then quickly stood at the foot of the bed, assuming a posture and waiting patiently.

The racket quelled. The door opened.

"Alright, ~mon amour~, I am-." Headmistress Fiora almost stumbled over her feet in shock, purse nearly tumbling to the floor, single eye spread wide and studying her lover.

Riven stood with legs wide, feet angled slightly inward, hips cocked off to one side, one arm curling around her back to grab her opposite elbow, head tilted up and cocked off-center, the side of her bottom lip clenched between her teeth. She said nothing, and allowed a positively stunned Fiora to take all of her in; the duelist even brushed the hair from her other eye so she wouldn't miss anything.

Her eyes started at Riven's heels of a deep maroon hue that exposed the top arches of her feet- Riven _never_ wore heels to the other woman's knowledge, not until now. Then the blue eyes moved upward, examining the corresponding ribbons wrapped loosely around her ankles, the frayed ends lazily lounging in various places. Further upward those eyes traveled, appreciating the dark, dark purple fishnet stockings that fit her legs like a second skin. Riven was satisfied to notice how the duelist's gaze lingered around her powerful thighs, thoroughly eyeing her loins before ascending. Those eyes analyzed the indigo, shiny leather one-piece that hugged her toned abdomen. The blue irises were confused as they saw the orange carrot buckle on the rawhide belt, but they would understand later. The eyes shifted to her lone arm, seeing the pair of white, sleeveless cuffs with carrot cufflinks. Further still they journeyed, discerning that the corset was lacking shoulder straps, and Riven saw little flecks of arousal as the duelist realized the woman before her wore no undergarments. The eyes drank in the plush breasts that bulged wonderfully, the darker, immaculate skin of her shoulders, and the triangle of cleavage that cut deep into the article, further displaying to all that she wore no bra, wandering across the succulent collarbone that stretched from joint to joint. After a sizable time of gaping at her partially-exposed chest, the eyes resumed, her gaze kissing the column of her neck and the floating collar with a miniature, black tie before she appraised the exile's face. The eyes saw lips thickly coated with the same maroon as the heels and ribbons, and the Headmistress unconsciously licked her bottom lip. Then the gaze shot to her hair and stared in astonishment at the two long, snowy, fuzzy bunny ears that drooped forward under their own weight. The eyes noticed Riven's locks, ashen strands similar in color to the fake appendages atop her head frizzy and scattered in the wickedest, sexiest way.

Finally, the eyes locked with dominating crimson ones, and the lust in icy irises was just what Riven wanted. She suppressed a smirk, and with a sensuous sway of her hips (she'd practiced for an embarrassing number of hours on her heels) she closed the distance between the two, only stopping when the proximity was so close, the tips of their toes touched.

Fiora arched her neck upward to stare at the exile, unsure of how to react. The Noxian's head lowered, making to kiss, and Fiora closed her eyes and leaned into her.

But Riven denied her the contact, parting her lips to match the duelist's and faintly ghosting their mouths against each other's. When Fiora tried to lean in further to seal it, Riven leaned just out of reach, and when the duelist contracted in disappointment Riven followed, ensuring that the gentle, teasing brushing of their open moths never ceased. The exile's scarlet orbs were open, watching in amusement as the brow of her lover furrowed in frustration and confusion, quivering eyelids eventually flittering open.

The Noxian's mouth positioned itself at Fiora's ear, and whispered in the richest voice she could muster, "You can touch me-"

As soon as the words fell from her mouth and tickled the duelist's ears, the Headmistress' hands immediately tried to rest themselves on her lover's wide hips. Riven's grabbed her forearms before they could reach their target, the thumbs rubbing the inner elbows gently.

"-for a price," Riven finished cruelly, gnawing the lobe.

The bewildered face of the brunette filled her vision as Riven retreated. Fiora's arms lowered, and the Noxian stared at the bag slung over the duelist's shoulder. Fiora followed the gaze, then returned, disbelieving of what the blonde was asking her to do. The blonde gave no more hints, watching as the Demacian fumbled for her pocketbook, gingerly drawing a 20 dollar bill and holding it skeptically between them.

Riven smiled slightly, unempathetically. The blonde carefully grasped the hand, and when she was sure the woman's focus was on the bill, manipulated the appendage to tuck the green paper into the breast of her corset. When the light of realization dawned on the duelist, Riven continued to guide the hand until it fully cupped her breast. A few seconds later, and the hand squeezed, eliciting a moan of longing from the scantily clad woman.

Their faces were so close again, and the exile murmured, "You can kiss me-"

Fiora hadn't learned her lesson it seemed; she greedily tried to swallow the blonde's wagging tongue, only to frown as the exile stayed just out of reach, foreheads and nose tips touching and rotating as the brunette tried to get the angle on her stubborn lover.

"-for a price." Riven wanted to give her lover the full experience.

Fiora nodded, withdrew another bill, and hesitated, looking upward to question with her eyes. She once again found no aid in crimson irises, and proceeded to tuck the paper in the same space.

Riven surged forth and crashed their lips together, sucking fervently on Fiora's tongue and rocking her hips into the duelist's. Hands clamped the other body to themselves, calloused hands of a wanderer squeezing lovely cheeks and raking through inky hair.

Fingers trailed up Fiora's thigh, beginning to slip under the skirt as Riven throatily husked, "You can fuck me-"

The Headmistress attempted to lower to grab her purse, but a bear hug held her steadfast, and Riven cryptically finished, "-if you show me a good time."

The brunette's eybrow quirked, and the blonde gave one last sloppy kiss, then separated and sauntered to the door. Distinct, blue eyes stared, flabbergasted, at the white cotton puff that sat in the crease of Riven's large, round asscheeks framed wonderfully in the costume. The blonde heard scrambling followed by the click-clack of heels as the woman tried to catch up. She did, and the two walked side-by-side toward the entrance.

Deciding to spare her love a small mercy, she interlocked their arms, and when Fiora looked to see what the Noxian was doing she gave her a quick peck and a warm, reassuring smile before assuming her role and gazing straight forward. Fiora visibly relaxed, smiled right back, and rested her head on Riven's bare shoulder.

Two pairs of heels crunched gravel and stone as the duo strolled to the Harrowing celebrations.

Ooooo

Three hours into the ball was when Riven realized they needed a bed. Now.

It had started well, with them crossing the short walk from House Laurent to House Moreau silently, the two cuddling as much as two walking people could cuddle. The din could be heard blocks away, and when they rounded the corner and entered through the gates strung with black and orange garland, thousands of guests greeted the duo. Costumes of all shapes and sizes frolicked and twirled beneath luminous, enchanted jack-o-lanterns bobbing up and down and soaring through the pitch-black sky, casting moody orange lighting onto their surroundings. The grounds were wide open and spacious, as was the Laurent mansion, and everywhere they looked guests in clever outfits cackled and played and flirted. Some of the costumes' uniqueness spawned simply from their luxury, pleated neckerchiefs spilling out over jackets lined with elegant patterns of gold, and wide, bell-shaped dresses infected with veiny strands of color that shifted on the surface, morphing into many different, vibrant images at once. Some adorned Mardi Gras masks, the likenesses of animals jutting from plates of silver and bronze while others wore disguises that actually resembled the creature they played doppelganger with. Some were gory, terrifying, over-the-top masterpieces, synthetic materials used to mimic flaps of flesh torn violently from their faces while others cloaked themselves in undulating material that seemed to be cut from the star-speckled sky above, crowning their amazing garb with faces that possessed the likes of grand deities. Some were slutty and revealing, constituting only of strips of fabric that barely covered what needed covering and topping it off with a tail and ears so they could claim, "I'm a sexy bunny/cat/owl!"- after all, when else is it socially acceptable for anyone to strip to their underwear and feel pretty? At least Riven didn't fool herself into thinking she was anything but a stewardess tending to the carnal necessities of her customer.

Every window of the mansion blared, and an equal, constant flow of people funneled to and from the multiple entrances. Drunks high on alcohol and the moment staggered everywhere, groping the more attractive guests and subsequently being thrown out or, in the rarer cases where the receiver was usually tipsy as well, having their actions reciprocated. Promiscuous escorts clopped everywhere in heels, chatting up potential customers, and Riven noticed that some wore the exact same garb as she did. She wasn't surprised; once she'd felt the pockets intended to store cash on the lining of the breasts, she'd realized what she was wearing wasn't some cheap POS sold in sex shops to young adults too high on hormones to accurately judge finances, but was in fact the real deal.

This was good; it fit her role well.

From a young age, little Fiora's caring parents were cautious about what they subjected their child too. As the duelist recounted, they may have taken it a step too far; she had no idea sex was largely used for mutual pleasure and not for the passionless, sterile goal of reproducing to extend the family lineage until she was 14 years old. The idea of two girls or two boys making love seemed ludicrous to the sprouting duelist, and when mysterious things started to happen to her with girls that she'd been told should happen with the opposite sex, and she started to see the world outside of the noble class, it all culminated to create her dizzying, very confusing, and overly-complicated late teen years filled with repressed desires and a large portion of her disposition stifled. The brunette hadn't fully understood that she was gay until Riven showed, she'd once confessed, and after lots of experimenting, the duo learned of one of her biggest kinks: apparently, the thought of coitus with a lowly prostitute was highly intriguing. Thus, Riven's choice in costume and Fiora's inability to stop staring at her.

For the first hour, they wandered among the chaos, the Headmistress clinging to her arm and introducing the warrior-turned-stripper to distinguished personalities, trying not to crack up and break her mask of cool indifference as the duelist took every opportunity to glance at her lover. Not that Riven never returned the attention. Frequently she would demand the shorter woman fetch them flutes of champagne or tasty delicacies from the servants that waded through the crowds with arms high, carrying silver platters. As the duelist sashayed away, the Noxian openly ogled the Demacian, loving how tightly the skirt hugged that cute, little but.

This was the first sign.

Then, during hour two, the duelist began to get a little frisky. Sometimes a hand squeezed her bum, a hand Riven knew well, and a hand that knew Riven well. Sometimes, as they pushed through crowds to enter the rooms of the house, that same hand would brush her boob. These were unsolicited, and the exile began taxing the woman's compassion. No longer would she be able to freely handle the Noxian without first slipping payment into her cleavage.

However, Fiora was slightly intoxicated, face flushed a rosy red, and long ago the blonde had discovered that the brunette became _very_ affectionate when liquor made the rounds. The Headmistress was soon out of money. No money meant no cuddles, and the woman was already hot and bothered before touching her arm candy had become costly.

It was in the lavatory where the frustrated smaller pinned the larger to the wall and kissed the coquettish woman, a pleasantly muffled, "Mphf!" escaping into the immobilized woman's mouth. They'd melted together, and soon the arms that were forced to the wall were shoving the aggressor further into her.

That was the second sign.

The third hour, the midnight hour, was where the blonde's plans went to Hell in a handbasket.

Orchestral tunes floated over the varying heads of partygoers, and soon nearly everyone had flocked to the center fountains to bask in the harmony of one of the best bands Runeterra had seen. Headed by a blue-haired mute, strange music wafted from a strange, levitating instrument, and the crowd danced merrily. Whoops and hollers joined the symphony, and the two lovers entered the fray. Pressed tightly together, bosoms threatening to burst they jigged and jagged with the rest, hands on waists, on backs, and then, as the music softened and they were allowed to gaze into each other's eyes, on the napes of their necks as they kissed.

It shouldn't have happened; the Headmistress was bankrupt and could afford no such thing. But as their intimacy increased, adoration swelled her heart and almost shattered the façade the exile had so carefully crafted. When strings of saliva bridged the gap, and both parties were breathless, Riven knew she needed a bed.

They'd left without ever rendezvousing with the host, though neither cared. The walk back was short but felt like ages, and the blonde used the time to repair her mock identity.

The duo were home, shivering not in discomfort but in excitement upon the steps.

As the Headmistress waltzed in, she looked up expectantly to her date and asked eagerly, "Did I show ze Mademoiselle a 'good time'?"

That exuding dominance returned, and she pretended to mull it over. She looked back down and condescendingly assessed, "I suppose so." She chewed her lip, puffed out her chest to draw attention to her assets, and looked to the stairs. "Why don't you show me to the bed?"

The duelist grinned stupidly, caught up in the roleplay, and lead the blonde courtesan by the hand up the stairs, around the corners and finally halted just outside the room. This was it; the Noxian's heart was hammering and her loins were so damp, yet she managed to remain calm. The charades had been all for Fiora, and they would stay all for Fiora.

The woman in question was currently fumbling with the knob, quickly trying to unjam the mechanism that was hindering her night of romance. The knob finally gave in, and the door swung open. Both stepped into the room, the duelist waiting for a command. Meanwhile, the ashen-haired escort stood in a manner that promoted attention to her womanly features as she observed and contemplated where the magic would happen. Would she bend her over the desk as she had wished to days ago? Or would they drain themselves beneath the stinging water of the shower? Perhaps the blonde would just take her standing, arm snaking around to grasp her crotch to bring the duelist to her knees?

In the end, the good ol' mattress held the most promise.

She pointed to the bed. "Sit."

Fiora obeyed, kicking off her heels and beginning to strip out of her costume when Riven's demanding voice declared, "Did I tell you to remove your clothes?"

The Headmistress turned, a perplexed shake of the head. "No?"

"I told you to sit. So sit."

The brunette followed orders, seating her rear into the covers and looking to her escort, her legs rubbing together to try and create some friction.

The Noxian closed the door with dramatic emphasis, leaning against the wood with arms trapped behind her. The only light in the room was from the oil lamp on the desk, and the shadows cast over the courtesan's curves shifted as she slowly promenaded, one leg before the other, the movements of the hips exaggerated, and with tall posture. Fiora gazed at her with hungry eyes the whole way.

She'd reached the sitting woman now, and stood in front of the brunette. The blonde spread her legs wide, placing hands delicately on the woman's shoulders and bending over far, utilizing her sex appeal to its limits. Fiora ogled her globes, and slowly, the blonde leaned in, straddling the duelist and smothering the brunette with her breasts. Riven couldn't hold back a smile as a tongue licked up her cleavage, but she fell back into character and receded just enough so the brunette couldn't easily get away with rogue actions.

Hands tried to palm her corset, but the Noxian batted them away. "No touching."

Fiora twisted to look to her bureau, likely for more cash, but Riven gripped her chin between the index and thumb and angled her head upward to look at the blonde. "Nuh-uh. That's not how this works. You don't touch me. You watch me." The exile sat straight up, crossing her arms behind the floppy ears and promising, "Then, _~I~_ touch _~you~_."

The sluggish, voluptuous gyrations of her hips captivated the Headmistress. Back and forth, left to right, left to right, forth and back, then repeat. Fiora literally sat on her hands, watching the torturously sumptuous movements of her lover's abdomen, then looking up to feast her eyes on the trembling, barely-clothed bosom. The exile's own hands pawed at her body, the right gliding low to sultrily palm her own privates, the left grasping her own right boob. The blonde threw her head back and moaned into the quiet air as the fishnet ground against her unprotected clit. Riven had never performed a lap dance, but she doubted Fiora could tell.

The escort stopped playing with herself and looked down at her customer. One hand momentarily vanished behind her back, and the recognizable _zzzzip!_ of a zipper being undone preceded the reappearance of said hand. Thumbs dipped below the pointed breasts and slowly, theatrically peeled the top away, plump mounds bouncing free. After undoing the leather belt, the courtesan supported herself on the Headmistress, shoving a darker melon tantalizingly close to the sitting woman's mouth as she slid the garment from her long, long legs and tossed the corset away. A very wet camel toe poking through the stretchy material of the leggings revealed just how much the exile was enjoying the strip tease.

The mesmerizing dance stopped, and the Noxian pressed all of her weight into the Demacian's shoulders, pushing the woman with sudden force into the duvet. Leaning over the prone duelist, she removed the pencil from her hair, inky locks fanning onto the background, and grabbed those sophisticated glasses and tossed them with abandon to somewhere behind her.

Without warning, she gripped the edges of the pinstripe blazer and violently ripped it open, gunmetal buttons flying in all directions. The courtesan paused, and reflected upon her work: a breathless Fiora lay beneath her, arms splayed, delicious lips parted, a halo of obsidian striped with purple levitating above her head, and her pristine, exposed chest boasting a fancy, black bra. A bra that Riven took between her white teeth and tore from the gorgeous body of her lover.

Riven had no more patience. She'd twat-blocked herself for three hours straight, and here she was, mouth hovering over appetizing, rosy tits. She forgot her persona in that instant, and voluntarily succumbed to desire.

The Headmistress shrieked as the Noxian devoured her boob, aggressively sucking the left while the right was roughly manipulated by a hand, the nipple twisted and torqued in all the ways Riven knew Fiora loved. The Demacian's legs locked around the blonde's waist, and the exile's free arm burrowed beneath the woman to clutch her cheeks. She gobbled both breasts with vigor, thick trails of saliva running down the duelist's body as teeth gnashed at the teats relentlessly, tongue sloppily spreading spittle everywhere.

When she was certain she'd wrung all the pleasure she could, she ceased, coiling her arms around her lover and throwing their entwined bodies farther onto the bed, Fiora squealing in delight as Riven's figure compressed her. The Noxian sat up with a wild gleam in scarlet irises, desperately fumbling with the miniskirt before unceremoniously shoving the garment upwards, bending down to inspect the goods.

The ruined panties she found between thighs that spread so enthusiastically for her only fed the flames of arousal, and the Noxian didn't bother to remove the article. A single, lascivious stroke of her tongue through the thong started that screaming she adored. Her name was spluttered through the dirtiest of profanity in Demacian as, through the chiffon fabric, she spread those puffy lips and Frenched the duelist's undercarriage. A middle finger smooshed and rubbed the Headmistress' clit, and the subtle quaver of her thigh betrayed her impending orgasm.

Riven draped the panties to the side, took all of Fiora in her mouth, gracefully shoving two digits into her love.

A wail of pleasure from the duelist, " _~C-Cumming!~_ " and the Demacian's hips bucked, thrashing and screaming and orgasming deliciously into Riven's accepting mouth. As she came, hands tenderly caressed the stocking-clad thighs, the exile humming happily as wave after wave of pent up stress leaked into her maw, tongue swirling in palatable folds.

For a while the brunette lay still, recovering from being edged all night long. A face with tinted rosy cheeks rose to gaze at the bunny-eared head between the Headmistress' thighs, and the Noxian rose her face and clambered over her to clumsily lock lips, fingers still planted deep inside.

Riven nibbled the bottom lip of the woman whose mouth contorted into an "O" as the digits began to move. The courtesan grinned cockily as Fiora collapsed gasping into the covers once more, following the descent downward to smear lipstick onto the neck that vibrated with whiney moans for " _~More! Please, mon amour, more!~_ "

The dual digits dove deeply into the slick heat of her love, knuckles dipping below the entrance as far as they would go, then briskly pulling out so only the tips of the fingers still remained. Every reattack arched the spine as the duelist offered her flawless body to her lover. The wrinkled, scarred digits curled inward and the Headmistress choked as her G-spot was scraped and prodded and pinched lightly by skilled, agile fingers.

As she pumped quickly and steadily, more viscous fluid flowing at an even rate with every thrust into Fiora's molten hot core she reassumed character and mumbled, " _~You like this, don't you? You love getting fucked by some cheap whore you picked up from the streets?~_ " Her lover's pulse accelerated, and more juice oozed from the duelist's pussy as her digits milked her for all its worth. " _~Oh yeah, you do. You little slut.~_ "

That did it. Screeching her name and twitching spasmodically with icy eyes rolling into her head, she came again, walls that were already so tight clamping onto her fingers and holding them there. Wheezing and choking, she clutched for dear life to the woman who'd given her so much. It took a long time to calm completely this round, passionately swapping spit and groaning blithely from the sensory overload that had to be one of her most intense on record.

But Fiora could likely still walk, given the chance. Riven didn't want that. And so, when her lover rested peacefully, the exile set to work removing the rest of her outfit, explaining when she finished, "I've already made love to the Headmistress-."

She gently settled into the curves of her lover, their figures meshing with each other's so well they resembled a jigsaw puzzle. Noses nuzzled and Riven's right arm was sandwiched between them while the other stealthily tunneled lower under the duelist's back. "-and now I want to make love to Fiora." Fingers pushed inside the Demacian again and lips lovingly kissed as those digits worked and worked and worked.

Then, in an unforeseen series of events, the Noxian gasped and went limp as a stab of white hot pleasure crippled her. She weakly hoisted her head to witness a lecherous grin painted on Fiora's scrunched mug, and then another marvelous stab elicited a pathetic whimper. She looked downward; the small hands of her lover had infiltrated her stockings and now two digits wriggled delectably inside her snatch.

The exile tried to resume, but found herself rolled onto her back with the stunning image of Fiora triumphantly straddling her. And then Riven's fingers slipped out as her lover dismounted and positioned her head at the Noxian's entrance. With an irresistible lip bite, the duelist ripped a giant hole in the crotch of the fishnet and descended.

" _~Oh, fuck yes!~_ " Riven screamed to the air as the hunger in her loins was finally sated. The fingers plunged her depths with speed and with skill, euphoria clouding her mind as a wet tongue abused her clitoris, flicking the bud and suckling. It felt so _good_ after so much teasing and foreplay to relieve the tension built up.

It was sudden and way too fast. The orgasm assaulted every sense, blinding her vision as bliss washed away everything but her lover's name.

" _~Guh… G-Guh… Cumming…~_ "

Riven really listened through the ringing in her ears and noticed the jerky motions and quickened breathing of the Demacian, and when she squinted downward through flashes of white her core flooded as she watched Fiora masturbate furiously. The heaving shoulders stilled mildly, and the other woman sat up just enough so that Riven could view the ridiculously arousing sight of a smirking Fiora pulling out of herself.

Soon after the spectacle, Fiora was moving again, the duo of digits accelerating gradually and earning an obscene sequence of expletives as the duelist rocked the exile's mind into next week. There was friction, so much friction as the fingers thrust into her liquid core, rubbing against the velvety confines of her pussy. She could feel herself overflowing, the thick arousal coating her inner thighs as more tension built rapidly in her loins.

" _~Fuck~..._ " she wheezed as a single digit pried open her puckered starfish and slid into her asshole, digging in as far as it could go before it anchored itself there. It wriggled and when Fiora pressed the right way, it stimulated that special patch inside of her, making her jolt with every plunging pump that plundered more bliss from her depths.

When a third finger joined the rhythmic penetration that smacked lewdly against her wet folds, she thought she'd pass out. She was so full, and then the fingers spread wide and the sensation amplified by tenfold and she screamed, " _~Yes, oh yes!~_ " as they swirled and stretched her walls.

Her aching loins couldn't contain it any longer, and she moaned so loudly as her release seized her being. Synapses fired in her brain as every nerve ending burned with bliss and unadulterated pleasure and her jaw wouldn't close as her legs wrapped around Fiora's head. Euphoria overwhelmed her core and the creamy aftermath was gladly lapped up by her lover as wave after wave after drowning wave consumed her convulsing figure.

Exhausted and satisfied, she could barely recall scrabbling to latch on to her approaching Fiora before she passed out giddily in the Demacian's amorous embrace.


	22. Chapter 22- The Promise

**Woo! 21 Follows! Fuckin' awesome! I know I didn't freak out like this at 10 Follows, but I really should have. From the very,** ** _very_** **,** ** _VERY_** **bottom of my heart, thank you to everyone who's favorited, followed, or reviewed this story! Also, I'm considering changing the name because "A Warrior of the Wind" is possibly the most cookie-cutter name I can think of, but I'll notify all of you heavily in advance if I follow up on that. As usual, leave a review and onward we go! (For those of that want a chapter centered around Christmas, I'll write one when the time comes.)**

 **2 Months Ago**

"You have never built a snowman? How is zis possible?!" an astounded Fiora gaped, incredulous at Riven's lack of experience with constructing snowy entities.

Riven, for her part, was amused with her lover's confounded reaction. A slight pull at the corners of her lips as she considered the fireworks that would erupt once she confessed that she'd never received a gift during the Time of Snowdown. She reclined further into the sofa, the plush upholstery creaking beneath her solid frame. The two lounged in the House library, backs rested comfortably against mounds of pillows on opposite armrests of the lengthened settee, their legs entwined and their hands grasping novels. Their special couch reserved solely for the lovers stood several feet from a hearth alight with a fire that basked the duo in its orange light, and it was here that the partners had spent most of the winter, noses to various books while they snuggled intimately. Now, that face Riven sought to make smile every for every waking moment was peeking out from a hardcover edition of some nondescript title. The brunette revealed her pretty face as the exile spoke.

"I've wandered for years," the blonde recounted. "The road tends to be a dangerous place; when I wasn't covering ground I was sleeping, eating or killing something that wanted to eat me. That doesn't leave much time to carve ice sculptures." Dubiety seized her expression, assumptions confusing with reality as she queried, "Also, I thought that Snowdown was a solemn time for Demacia, 'honoring the lost' and all that jazz?"

"It is. But it is also about ze honoring of life and all zat it has to give!" The Demacian frowned, forehead of flawless skin rumpling into waves, and persisted, "You have never created a snowman?"

"No, I can't say I've had the pleasure."

Fiora contemplated something, shifting to gaze past Riven. After staring at was likely the window, the duelist looked back to her girlfriend. A guileful grin spawned, a glimmer of excitement flashed over those sky-blue eyes and lodged itself there. Riven loved that look.

Some scheme resided in her girlfriend's intelligent brain. The blonde always enjoyed the brunette's plans; on one occasion, she'd been led by the hand to a wonderful outdoor picnic with ham sandwiches and wine from one of the unrivaled vineyards of Kaladoun, and on another she found herself surfing the mighty wake of the Conqueror's Sea aboard a sleek sailing vessel.

Her beloved eyed her with this promise of mutual entertainment, and gradually untangled their legs. With catlike grace, she mounted her girlfriend and with a smile, pressed her soft, lovely lips against Riven's for a chaste yet passionate kiss. The Noxian's hands ascended to glide along the sides of her duelist's hips and abdomen as the Demacian's palm hugged the exile's face. They parted, and the duelist momentarily rested her forehead against her partners.

"I believe it is I who will pop your cherry zis time, mon amour," Fiora hummed. Then, she pushed off of the loopy blonde, futilely attempting to hoist the woman from the couch.

Fortunately for the duelist, the exile was plenty capable and stood without aid.

As Fiora slipped her elegant hand into the warrior's, Riven replied with a smile, "Well it's about time, darling."

ooooo

Crisp air flooded the blonde's lungs as the oaken masterpiece swung gradually open as the curtains would retract in some grandiose theater performance, beckoning all spectators to gaze upon the stage where miracles would raise spirits and tragedies would rend hearts in two.

The stage in question was an immaculate sheet of frozen milk. Sparkling with innocence, the shroud covered every patch of dirt, every blade of grass, and every pathway of cobble or gravel with its pristine beauty. All was silent; the merry chirping of birds was long absent, the faint noises of the city so faint nothing could hear them, and the rustle of wind in anything could not foster because everything to rustle had gone departed with the passing seasons. No life existed; the cicadas were dormant in their burrows, the dogs of the streets either adopted or whisked away to the playground in the sky by the clutches of frostbite, and the gardeners and harbingers of parcels from distant lands were all tucked away in their cozy homes with their families of too many children and not enough caretakers. No gentle sun floated high above to save the land from Winter's embrace; dreary clouds thickly woven of depressing cotton shifted and swirled and contained all rays from the ultimate heat. The environment emanated a sullen sadness, a somber, white mourning of what was.

But then the blonde's attention returned to the woman guiding her hand-in-hand, noting the rosy cheeks that peeked out from a scarlet scarf from below and a purple stocking cap crowned by a scarlet pompom, studying the petite, smile of elation knit upon skin as flawless as the snow, and finally staring into eyes icy yet brimming with so much warmth those irises should've melted by now. It was then that the Noxian realized that just as a drama from the classy amphitheaters possessed many different interpretations, so too was the tone of their background dependent on the eyes through which they were viewed through. When she was alone, her surroundings were harsh, bitter, and unforgiving, deaf to her pleas for even the slightest mercy.

However, as her girlfriend stood before her, the tundra was no longer colorless and unempathetic. Suddenly that quiet was not unnerving: now it was a serene peacefulness. White was now the most awe-inspiring hue she'd ever laid eyes upon, for it perfectly contemplated her duelist's own getup and silhouetted her perfect curves visible even beneath layers of clothing. The truancy of any other being promoted no distractions, and she used the calm to appreciate everything about the Demacian, and truly focus on the object of her affection.

She tugged the hand now concealed with a mitten toward her, and as the woman moved toward the exile, she trapped her with her arms. Their lips softly collided in the sweetest way, their eyelids falling shut and their hands exploring their opposite's back. Even through their parkas the duo could feel their heat transfer through the fabric as their bodies fit together as they had countless times before. Grins were recognized through their wet meshing, and both sighed.

They disengaged after a spell, and the brunette cooed, "Why must you distract me so?"

The blonde leaned in and teased the smaller's nose with her own. "Because you're cute when you're confused."

The Demacian bat at the Noxian's chest, wriggling out of her grasp with a wide grin. She obviously had nothing to say to that, so she turned and trotted off. The other woman turned when she didn't detect footfalls behind her to catch Riven staring- whoops, looks like she'd been caught ogling again.

Fiora was her girlfriend though, so she felt no humiliation.

As boots compressed crunchy ice in pursuit of her lover, the quilt sown from grumpy patches of sky began to precipitate. The flakes showered evenly, their prickling chill speckling the exile's darker complexion with its frigid tickle. She lifted a gloved hand and observed the intricate, symmetrical pattern unique to every droplet. Most were clustered mutations of many, but a few lay alone, liquefying slowly under her fastidious gaze.

"Ze first snow of ze season!" Fiora exclaimed. The woman removed her cap, freeing her black hair to dance in the breeze. The duelist tilted her head back to accept the gift, the white flecks of ice freckling the shimmering locks. Snowflakes gently touched down on the Demacian's closed eyelids and on her oh-so-kissable lips.

Riven wished she could paint. The relaxed, content expression upon that face and the posture that that body assumed was something she wanted to capture forever, though as she gaped she concluded that a canvas and pastels weren't needed to help her remember this till her final breath.

After a lengthy period of time consisting of the exile's lover scouting out a suitable area, they picked a seemingly indiscriminate location for the birth of their snowchild. Fiora began the tutorial, traveling in winding circles, their ball spinning and growing in diameter as it glided over the arctic surface. Riven simply watched the woman snake her way around her, looping the loop repeatedly and occasionally doubling back. The bottom completed, the brunette lodged the sphere in their chosen spot.

Fiora blew rogue strands from her eyes. "Ze base is constructed. Now it is your turn!" As Riven bent to craft the core for the second, the Demacian continued, "Zere is a technique, so listen close. First you must-."

"I'm pretty sure I'm capable of rolling snow around a clearing, darling," Riven interjected, a crass edge to her tone and her smile.

The duelist huffed disbelievingly, arms crossing and offsetting her hips. "Alright, zen. Show me how it is done, if you are so skilled in snowcraft," she replied with equal wit.

The blonde snorted, and began to prove her worth. It couldn't be that hard, could it…?

' _…_ _Damnit._ '

Fiora was right; there was a technique to the blasted thing. Sure, the snow compacted easily enough, but the further she progressed, the more it looked like she was crafting the world's biggest cannoli. She felt ridiculous as she stared with defeat at her creation, aware of the snickering off to her side.

"I zought we were making a snowball, not rolling a cigarette," the Demacian taunted.

"I admit that it's harder than it looks," the blonde grumbled with difficulty, palms still resting on the hunk.

Snow smooshed, and moments later a hand laid reassuringly over hers. The exile looked over, and Fiora pecked her lightly with a cocky smirk.

"Do as I do, and perhaps one day you will be as great as I," her lover taunted.

"Uh huh. Because that's something the great Master Yi needs on her resume: expert snowman architect. That'll woo the ladies," Riven sarcastically retorted.

"It might woo me."

The warrior pretended to chew on the subject before she smirked, "Then maybe it's worth learning."

Fiora giggled in that way of hers- not exceedingly girly, but just between a deep rumble and a feminine snicker-, and the two simultaneously leaned in to kiss. It was deep, but it was short, and though both wanted more they commenced with the construction as flakes continuously descended. They cooperated to round off the ball, and with the dexterous digits of a master guiding the amateur apprentice, they righted the wrong and immediately started on the next, enjoying their close proximity.

They placed the third on top of the second, and Riven queried, "So is that it? Do we start decorating now?"

"No, silly! Have patience. Ze framework is not yet done."

The blonde's brow scrunched. "It isn't?"

"No! Zere are only zree, here. A true has four segments."

"Every snowman I've ever seen had three segments."

"Zat is simple: zey were not true snowmen," the brunette explained.

The absolute nature of the statement drew a chuckle from the exile. "I suppose that's good enough."

And so they continued until the head appeared beneath their frozen fingertips. At Fiora's behest, Riven placed the final piece atop the other three, and after scavenging various sticks and stones from beneath the crackly blanket, the duo garnished the icy figure until pebbles outlined two eyes, a nose with two nostrils each larger than the peepers, and a wide smile. The two lovers stepped away to analyze their work of art, interlinking their arms and standing close. Fiora's capped head rested affectionately on the blonde's shoulder, and in turn the exile rested hers on the duelist's.

Neither spoke. Fiora cuddled closer. Riven's head turned to press her lips into the scratchy woolen stocking cap. Snow fell sluggishly.

"I zink he is lovely," the shorter commented.

"Mmmm," the taller agreed.

More total silence. More snow fell.

"It has no arms," the Noxian realized.

"Zis is true, but he is still lovely."

"Yeah, but it's paraplegic," Riven insisted.

"What does zat have to do wiz anyzing?" Fiora laughed at her lover's persistence.

"It can't hug its beloved. It'll be alone," the woman explained.

The Demacian sounded impressed with the observation, seeming to agree. "Zen why do you not fix him?"

"And since we're both women, isn't it a snowwoman?" the Noxian asked.

"Why I believe zat is correct," Fiora admitted before suggesting, "I agree. Our female friend requires arms so zat she may hug her mate-." Riven nodded, and as she stepped forward, the brunette added, "-as I may hug you."

The smaller woman wrapped her arms around the blonde's torso, and the taller chuckled and reciprocated. The Demacian leaned her head to stare face-to-face with the Noxian.

"I love you, mon chèrie."

"I love you, too, my angel," the exile replied without hesitation. Another passionate kiss and they parted.

The warrior approached the snowwoman. She was halfway to her destination when her gut tugged downward. She obeyed and ducked, and something whizzed over her head and collided with the icy figure with a _paff!_

Riven rose and studied the face of the snowwoman; fine bits of snow powdered the nose and left eye.

She whipped her head around to witness a Fiora with mischief welling in those blue pools. Another snowball was juggled casually with a single hand, and the duelist smirked despite missing her target.

Riven mimicked that mischief. With an overlying, overly-dramatic overtone, she cried out in mock hurt, "Ahh, I see how it is. You tell me you love me to make me drop my guard."

Fiora's shit-eating grin only grew broader.

The Noxian's hands held each other behind her back, and she paced. "It almost worked too. But you forgot one thing, my love." Her fingers trailed inconspicuously over the torso of their icy creation as she sauntered passed.

"And what is zat, mon amour?" the duelist played along, prepared for a retaliation.

"I'm always ready to fight, darling." The blonde's hand clutched as much snow from the snowwoman as she could hold and packed it tightly. In a single, smooth motion, she smartly whipped the orb at her lover. It was fast, but Fiora was expecting it. She chucked her own frosty weapon with startling precision and power.

Riven eyed the projectile, roughly calculating its trajectory, and finally leaned her upper body to one side. Her left hand remained, however, and with skill she cleverly caught the snowball with the same method one would catch a water balloon- it was less of a dead-on catch and more of a gradual application of force.

Fiora's smile was just as wide, but its confidence had transformed into an "I fucked up and I know it" look.

The blonde returned the snowy weapon, flinging the thing to squarely collide with her girlfriend's chest. The other woman released a grunt as the icy ball exploded into fine shards of soft snow, and she staggered backwards before awkwardly collapsing onto the ground.

The blonde confidently sashayed to offer assistance, sure of her victory.

However, Fiora was not one to surrender so easily. As the Noxian closed in, she raked her hand across the ground, a blinding cloud of cold billowing toward Riven's eyes. She sidestepped it without much trouble, and eyeballed the woman who was sprinting away to seek refuge in a small forest of dead trees.

It seemed Fiora wanted to play.

The exile trudged through thick snow growing thicker by the minute to the dead wood, following the tracks left by dainty boot prints to sniff out her prey. The trees, withered and gray, rose from the chilly carpet to splay their craggy, branching limbs into the atmosphere. Just as before, all was silent. The hunter's attentive eyes scanned the treetops; the footprints ended at the base of a tree, and Riven knew Fiora was far past agile enough to navigate the creaking bows with ease. At first, she saw nothing.

Then a flash of red in her peripheral, and she turned in time to view a scarf flapping comically from behind the branches up in the tangled spiderwebs above. Riven didn't act though: it was much too easy. So she did what she always did when she needed to find something. She closed her eyes.

Nothing. No noise at all. Just the soundless pitter-patter of flakes landing on the ground. If she were Lee Sin, this would suffice: he could use the rain or the snow to pinpoint his target by tracking the ruckus of water colliding with a body's form. But Riven was not Lee Sin, and so she listened harder.

There was no smell beside that odd scent that accompanied winter's arrival, that mix of decaying leaves and the watery apprehension of a downfall.

There was no taste- wait, yes there was. It was near undetectable, but the flowery perfume Fiora always wore dawdled on her taste buds, and moments later the odor hit her just as slightly. This was what she would use, she decided.

Then she got lucky. A quick gust of wind blew through the forest, disturbing piles of snow and ruffling the woman's garments. As it passed, the currents of air flowed over a figure cowering behind the torso of a tree not far off, and because Riven was a very good friend of the wind, the ethereal being told her of this discrepancy in the world and she gave her undying gratitude as always.

The exile opened her eyes and tilted her head towards the direction her lover was supposed to be in. She still couldn't perceive the duelist's hiding spot until she noticed the smallest tremble of what she'd taken for a nub high up in the branches. She nodded, thanked her invisible benefactor once more, and crafted the most compact snowball she could.

She rolled her shoulders.

Then, the exile pitched the icy thing far to the right. But she asked for help once again, and just as the ball passed the trunk, it curved. The thing exploded, and a grin of satisfaction followed a startled yelp. It didn't last long.

The snowball had impacted solidly, as she knew it would, but she'd neglected the consequences of such an act. Now, her lover desperately scrambled to maintain their perch, and with a clumsy, last-ditch effort, she was freefalling.

The blonde's body moved without thought. Her legs pumping, balls of her feet slamming through layers of ice, she sprinted at impossible speeds. Columns of snow kicked up high in her wake, a wave of wind at her back lent her its endless endurance, and before she knew it, she was there.

She caught the tumbling woman bridal style, with her left arm hooking under the duelist's knees and her right around the duelist's back. The exile let her legs bounce, dispersing the weight to lessen the impact. When she was sure her lover was unharmed, she released a heavy exhale.

Fiora appeared startled. It transformed into admiration seconds later. "It appears you have found me, mon amour."

Riven shook her head, but still smiled. "I should whitewash you, you devious little trickster."

"But you will not," Fiora informed her.

"And why is that?"

Cold, mittenless hands braced her cheeks and pulled her in. The battle of tongues was intense, but brief, and a string of spittle stretched between them, breaking off when the smaller licked her lips.

A partially-dazed Riven said, "That's a pretty good reason."

The Demacian shivered, but grinned back. The exile could feel snow leaking through the parka, and she deduced that the watery substance was due to her. Her lover must've been freezing.

"How about we head in and warm up?" she asked softly.

The brunette simply nodded against her shoulder, and Riven pivoted to return to the mansion, breathing hot breath onto Fiora's blue-tinged face.

ooooo

The flurries had morphed into a raging blizzard, and the wind howled outside the panes of glass, white monsters thrashing and baying at the windows in a furious attempt to break the confines between nature and woman. No rays seeped through the cracks this time. The fire was the only source of light in the library. Orange flames sizzled and popped, twitching frantically in the hearth, casting shadows that spasmed over the aisles of bookcases. Darkness enshrouded everything the mad blaze didn't assault with its purifying radiance, boogeymen lurking and skulking in the pitch-black. Whispers wafted over dusty tomes and sailed in the tar pools covering the wooden floor.

It didn't matter what plotted there though, because the fire protected the only entities worth saving in the room. Riven lay atop her lover, draping her sturdy form over her to give her warmth. A thick, heavy blanket enveloped them in coziness, and the crackling flames emanated heat to the women on the couch. Riven's toned arms slithered around Fiora's waist, her head nestled cozily beneath the duelist's chin while the Demacian's hands wrapped around the blonde's shoulders to hold her tight. The exile could hear the slow, steady beating of her lover's heartbeat, and she nuzzled the other woman's collarbone. Where their flesh met, warmth stirred, and beneath their covering, the blanket effectively trapped all heat, making them comfortably toasty everywhere. A foldable stand sat nearby with empty mugs; they'd slurped hot cocoa, and now their stomachs were full. They both wore long sleeve sweatshirts and sweatpants, and though they might've been slightly sweaty with all of the insulators, neither were near overheating, for Demacian winters were notoriously cruel.

They lay there, both silent, Fiora gently combing her fingers through Riven's platinum locks while the latter purred pleasantly like a cat. Both were content to stay there until the end of time. Or until breakfast. Whichever came first.

The blonde could feel the hesitant vibrations of the other woman's vocal cords. "Do have something to say, darling?" she drawled lazily.

Silence.

"I do not know if it is appropriate for me to ask…" Fiora trailed off.

"Well, we'll never know if you don't say it," the exile thrummed.

"… Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you had stayed?"

"You mean stayed with Noxus?"

"Yes."

A pause. The fire hissed and snapped.

She chortled, bemused with her conclusion, as air expelled from her nose to tickle the skin of her lover. "If the fighting is as bad as it's made out to be, I'd likely be dead right now," the Noxian explained.

Fiora didn't like that answer. Her arms tightened around her shoulders, and even though she was on bottom she snuggled closer. "I do not like ze zought of you…" her lover trailed off again.

"Dying?" the exile offered. There was no reply. "I just met the love of my life. I'm not dying anytime soon," she assured her.

"How many soldiers said zat to zere loved ones and never returned?" the Demacian whispered.

Riven didn't have an answer to that one. However, she could say, "I'm not over there anymore, darling. I'm right here. With you."

"But your pledge! You cannot cleanse Noxus if you are here wiz me. It is not possible," Fiora persisted softly.

The blonde exhaled deeply. That answer depressed her; that was 12 years ago. She was a different person then, younger and naïve. There was still fighting to this day with no end in the near future. "Honestly darling, after all this time, I don't think Noxus is worth saving anymore."

More silence. The fire fizzled.

"You cannot just give up; it is not in your nature. I have not known you very long, but I know you are more tenacious zan anyone I know. Zis is not somezing you can simply let go of."

That was also very true and very depressing. She could only hope that Ionia managed to win the war and crush Noxus so utterly, new management would seize the throne.

"I just do not want you to leave me alone," Fiora finally confessed.

Without words, Riven lifted her head slowly, as to not cause alarm, and kissed gently. It was long and slow, heartfelt and amorous. Their tongues gracefully twirled and swirled, their lips lovingly locked, their breathing measured. Back and forth their wet muscles dipped and explored until they separated. Adoration gleamed in both pairs of eyes.

"I won't leave you, Fiora. I'll never leave you."

"Promise me," she commanded, mellow yet firm.

She nodded before she spoke. "I promise."

Her head laid down and they stayed that way, the Noxian embracing the Demacian until Riven recognized the signs of sleep when they appeared in her lover. Slowly, carefully she hefted and stalked to their room, climbing stairs and turning corners.

She opened, then closed the door to their quarters. She drew back the sheets and meticulously extricated herself, tucking the dozing woman in. Then she clambered in, and spooned her duelist. As she snuggled in, arms around her waist again, she nuzzled the top of her lover's head, running her lips through silken tresses. Fiora's light snoring became pleasantly monotonous, and as the tender waves of sleep began to wash over her, she cuddled closer. When she passed out, the last thing she felt was Fiora snuggling closer into their embrace.


	23. Chapter 23- I Know

**So it's been awhile since I've posted, so sorry about that. My shitty laptop almost died and I had to get it repaired since I can't really afford another one right now. In conclusion: no, I have not abandoned anything. In fact, I plan on posting at least a couple other chapters in the coming days to make up for my absence. So yall remember when I said I was at the halfway point sometime in a chapter way before this one? Yeah, I have no fucking clue when I'm gonna stop. I have an outcome in mind and I have many specific events that lead up to it, but so far the length of each chapter has been pretty inconsistent. Please post a review of my progress so I know what I'm doing right and wrong. Thanks to Gmp1000, I now have a bio written and posted! Check it out for more about me! Now enjoy.**

 **1 Month Ago**

The message arrived three or so weeks after Snowdown.

It wasn't so much a message as it was overheard gossip from a chatty Cathy in the commercial sector of Demacia, but its urgency was understood nonetheless. A short, squat woman, clearly a noble, with a string of pearls choking her large, fatty neck prattled on to another wealthy individual, boredom in his posture that the loud woman didn't notice. The topic of their conversation was how dreadfully long the Noxus-Ionia war had raged on, and as Riven strolled past the two, arm linked with Fiora's, she couldn't agree more.

But then, Riven heard from the man, "…and all was quiet on ze East Coast until recently. It would appear ze Noxian hounds actually employed _tactics_ for once, can you believe zat? Anyways…"

She slowed, lingering just long enough to catch what she wanted. Fiora shot her a confused glance, but the exile didn't respond, ears perked and listening attentively.

"…some old man is making a fuss. He has half ze country calling for some… ah, ze name eludes me… River? Riviera? Ah what does it matter…?"

Fiora seemed puzzled at the way the Noxian's face blanched. "Chèrie, what is it?"

"…I need to go home," was all she said, pleading with her eyes.

Fiora studied the other woman's irises, discovering the tension in blood-red saucers. Her free hand gently landed on Riven's exposed shoulder. The touch calmed her, as it always did, and icy-blue eyes bobbed as her head nodded. "Zen home we shall go."

ooooo

The carriage ride back to the mansion seemed shorter than it was to the Noxian lost in thought. She hadn't realized she'd been staring until Fiora had laid a hand on her knee and leaned in from across the seat opposite her. As Riven focused into the present, the expression of the Demacian she loved invaded her vision. She looked so concerned, and she asked, "Riven, are you okay? Riven, mon chèrie?"

The blonde leaned in and kissed her, savoring the taste and texture, palms ascending to cup the other woman's gentle face. The brunette sighed and enthusiastically returned the affection, but her worry didn't disappear from her body language. They parted after a long while, noticing the uncomfortable doorman who'd borne witness to their make-out session.

The duo's feet touched down, and they clacked up the stairs to enter the foyer, Fiora still anxiously clinging to the blonde. The Noxian stopped, and the Demacian turned to look at the other woman, carefully demanding answers.

The duelist could tell the exile was wrestling with something, Riven knew that; however, she wasn't quite ready tell her lover exactly what plagued her. She took the petite, skillful hands into her rough, weathered ones to try to ease her lover's distress.

The brunette beautiful inside and out almost demanded from her, "Please, mon amor, what ails you?" Riven opened her mouth to speak but Fiora accidentally cut her off. "Was it what zat woman said at ze market?"

Riven smiled. Of course she didn't like it when the duelist was stressed, but Fiora was so cute when she was upset. "I'll be fine, darling." She brushed the curtain of raven hair and tucked it behind the ear of her lover so she could see both, breathtaking eyes. "I just need time to think."

Fiora nodded. "Would you… like me to leave you to your zoughts?" she queried hesitantly.

"No," the exile quickly objected to the idea. "Please, stay with me."

Fiora nodded again, slightly at ease, and briefly pressed their lips together. "Oui. I will stay."

ooooo

They lay silently in their bed atop the comforter, the blonde pondering the future while the brunette gave her something to squeeze. The Demacian's arms wrapped around her waist, pulling them closer while Riven's larger form protected them both. Their legs tangled, Fiora was too short to rest forehead against forehead, so she was forced to nuzzle into the other woman's defined collarbone. Warm breath soothed the exile's skin as the duelist's hands rubbed circles into her mid back, and Riven reciprocated with her digits running through inky locks of hair that smelled like the sweetest flowers.

' _Fitting._ '

The message greatly disturbed her. She tried not to show it, but she was afraid. Not of war and death; these things came naturally to her. In fact, she considered herself a master of both.

Riven was afraid of leaving Fiora. She knew she couldn't ignore what was definitely Haruto's cry for help. He'd fed her and cared for her even though her kind were murdering and pillaging their way across the peaceful nation at the time, and when she'd confessed her troubles, he'd directed her toward the Hirana Monastery. Haruto had effectively guided her to the path that would change her for the better. It was the path where she would meet the stoic Lee Sin and learn how to fight with fists. It was that path where she would accept the teachings from possibly the greatest man she knew, where she would learn that an even, unwavering mind was just as important as an even, unwavering blade. It was the path that would shift her perspective, the path where she raised herself from the ashes of what she once was, the path down which she would speak out against evil rather than slink along and hope it didn't see her.

It was the path that lead her to love Fiora, to stick around when the going got rough and fix a mind shattered like hers once was, to lay here with the woman in her arms and contemplate how to go about the message. The man had indirectly introduced her to her _amor_ \- her Demacian was improving as days passed- and she could think of no other way to repay him than by answering his call.

But that would require abandoning her amor for an unspecified amount of time. She was confident Fiora could manage, but the sensation was much like the apprehension one felt as they stepped into an elevator: in theory, you should be fine. The cable won't snap, and at a press for the button you'll be where you want to be. However, you don't really know this until you try it out for yourself, and if the cord does breaks, the results would spell disaster. As the brunette shifted in her arms to curl in closer, she became even less sure of what to do.

She might not even return at all. Yes, Riven was highly skilled, and, yes, Riven was experienced in killing and battle and starvation and pestilence and all other things associated with war and strife, but she was not invincible. A stray moment of carelessness and her corpse would spend its limited days staring at the roof of a coffin, if the body were ever recovered.

Fiora's greatest fear was living life alone, a fear Riven had vowed to never allow to come to fruition. Passing through ravaged lands rife with violent conflict sounded to her like the exact opposite way to fulfill her promise, yet how else was she to help this old accomplice? She couldn't leave Fiora because of a promise, yet she must leave Fiora because of a promise. Riven's conscience was at war with itself. It was time for a second opinion.

As she angled her head down, she just then noticed the absence of hot breath on her collar and the presence of a hand snaking around her neck. When she looked downward, eyes were already looking back up at her. They gazed at each other analyzing the details of and patterns of their irises and the shape of the sockets that kept them there. Fiora pulled her head down, and their lips connected. The exile's tongue slithered over soft, supple flesh, then entwined with the other, smaller muscle, and the two danced in each other's mouths. The exile always liked the taste of the duelist's saliva: sweet like the honey droplets she sucked on so often and minty like the toothpaste she applied in generous amounts to ensure her flawless smile always dazzled. They separated to suck in air, then reattacked each other, sloppy smacking breaking the quiet.

They detached.

"I have to go…" the blonde regretfully informed.

"I know…" was the equally as breathy response.

Silence all except the breathing.

Then the Noxian said, "I don't _want_ to go…"

"I know…"

"But I have to…"

"I know…" the Demacian repeated.

A faint smile. "You seem to know a lot of things, all of a sudden."

The other woman opened her mouth, the smallest amount of mischief twinkling for the smallest amount of time.

"Don't you dare say 'I know' again…" Riven commanded amusingly, cutting her off.

A grin spread across a pale face, as if her master plan had been thwarted. But the grin disappeared.

More silence.

"I'm sorry," the exile offered.

"You cannot be sorry about somezing like zis." She snuggled in again, her words stroking her upper chest. "As much as I despise ze idea, I am not ze only person who requires your assistance. It would be wrong for me to say ozerwise."

"And yet I'm still sorry," Riven persisted.

She could feel Fiora's smile against her skin. "Zat is because you love me."

The blonde leaned her head down so her nose swam in an endless pool of cool, shimmering black. "Maybe it is."

"I love you, too," Fiora commented.

"I know. I never doubted that."

"I would razer know you know zan merely zink you know."

"Ah," the exile acknowledged. "Well, so that I know that you know: I love you, Fiora."

"I know."

Silence.

"Why do you leave?" the brunette queried curiously, though Riven suspected the Demacian could recall.

"When I first returned to Ionia- you remember the story?" the exile asked. Shortly after their hooking up, the blonde had spilled everything: there was no way to build a solid relationship on mystery and secrets.

The Noxian's nose sifted through locks for the duration of the nod she received. "When I first returned to Ionia, I met a man in the first village I came across. Instead of spears and arrows, which was what I was expecting, he welcomed me with open arms and gave me dinner out of nothing but the kindness from his heart. I've met few men like him- Hell, I've met few _people_ like him."

"I remember."

"I had nothing to give but my word that I'd help him if her ever needed it. If what that one woman said is right, it sounds like he needs it now," she finished waiting for a reply.

A long silence.

"So you must return to Ionia once more?"

"Yes."

More silence.

"It will be dangerous, I assume?" The question was asked as if the duelist didn't want to know the answer.

Riven sighed. She wouldn't lie. "Very." Fiora tensed and held her tighter. "I'll be careful, darling. I won't take unnecessary risks."

"I know." It sounded so small and feeble. Riven felt terribly guilty.

More painful silence.

"Please do not die." The straightforward request took her off-guard.

"Of course I won't, dear. That goes without saying.

Fiora sniffed, "No, you do not understand." She looked up, and Riven saw the puffy red eyes, felt the dampness against her collar, and spied the glimmering traces of tears around the corners of her eyes. "You are a wanderer at heart. You do not need me for happiness, But I… I… You…"

Riven waited patiently.

" _I need you_ ," She blurted. "Wizout you I have nozing. You have shown me how to live. You have given me your heart and I have given you mine, and if you die…"

A few moments passed as she searched for her words. Meanwhile, the blonde's thumb tenderly wiped away the clear drops that stained her eyes. Fiora leaned into the appendage, closing her eyelids.

"Zen you die wiz boz our hearts. And I cannot breaze wizout my heart, mon amor."

The message sunk in during the quiet that followed.

"I think you underestimate how much I care for you," Riven said.

The eyes opened again, questioning and gorgeous, even with the ugly contortion of sadness.

"You make it seem as if losing you wouldn't be the end of the world for me." She leaned in awkwardly, forehead against forehead. "I know what you're going through. If I die, I won't see you again either. Yeah, I flew solo before I met you," she conceded, "but that was before I met you, angel."

A sheepish smile. "I am sorry. I assumed- I am sorry." She nestled back into the crook of the exile's shoulder.

"That's ok."

Several more moments of silence.

"I could come wiz you." There was some hope, and Riven hated to quash it.

"No, you can't. I won't let you."

"I am capable of defending myself, chèrie, if ze need arises," Fiora responded, mildly hurt.

"The need will arise," the blonde assured the other woman. "And I'm not insulting your skill, hun."

The duelist relaxed. "Zen why can I not follow you?"

"Because war is Hell," the Noxian simply responded.

"Hmpf. Tell me somezing I do not know."

"A man doesn't always die instantly when you sever the head from the body," she replied factually, bluntly.

Fiora looked up, confused and morbidly curious. "Zat is oddly specific."

"And there're many other oddly specific facts I don't want you to know."

The duelist still didn't understand.

"War isn't what Demacian society makes it out to be. There are no cheery ballads as everyone marches to die in droves. There are no amazing speeches from admirable generals that raise morale and end in cheering and enthusiasm. There are no sane minds that aren't at least somewhat affected by the meat grinders of battle. There are no morals that won't fly out the window once one's life is at stake. There is no god that can justify genocide. There are no heroes of war, just those with a higher than average kill count. There is no glory in taking a life. There is no honor in taking a life."

She tried to quell the sourness that built in her mouth, but instead let it fester and seethe. "There is no difference between man, woman, or child." She chuckled dryly here, "War was the first equal opportunist: everyone has an equal chance of dying in some hole with pieces of their friends scattered about. War is getting pegged in the back from some unseen sniper and slowly bleeding out behind a rock while you hopelessly wait to die. War is ending a little girl's life because you were order too because of some bullshit rhetoric created by some asshole in a tower miles away with too much fucking power-."

"Chèrie, calm." Riven gazed into blue eyes coated with understanding, a hand raking gently through her hair as her lover whispered, "It is okay. I am here, mon amor. I am here."

She exhaled heavily and willed her throbbing heart to cease its furious thumping. "Thank you." Her lips kissed the other woman's brow. "I don't want you seeing any of that. It changes you, trust me. I don't want it changing you."

"But what if it changes you? What if you return and you… you want nozing to do wiz me, wiz anyone?" More fear seeped into her tone.

"It won't, darling."

"And how do you know?" the Demacian retorted confrontationally.

"Because it's already changed me. There's nothing left that it can do to me."

Her lover didn't seem very satisfied with her answer, but she accepted it anyways.

Through strained breath, Fiora asked the hardest question. Sometimes it's better not to know how much time was left so that every moment till feels like a blessing rather than a frantic scurry to cram everything into a small, designated time. Fiora didn't have that patience, though. "When will you leave?"

"As soon as I can."

The brunette didn't like that, frowning and holding tighter as if the blonde were to leave right then and there. "At least stay ze night."

"Of course, my darling."

ooooo

Frothy waves lapped at the wooden planks of the harbor. The salty sea air burned the nostrils, and screeching, feathery seagulls soared above. Fishermen, captains, crewmen, and prostitutes alike ambled along the dock, all set with different objectives, but all were some of the loudest and dirtiest men and women the blonde had seen outside of Noxus. Whistles pierced the ears, and yelling and shouting reverberated across the water. Watercraft of all different sizes and shapes were either tied meticulously to posts or cutting through the ocean blue.

Fiora and Riven stood before the ship the Noxian was to use to travel to Ionia. A massive schooner, three trunks of a large diameter stabbed at the sky, and on the middle, tallest flew the House Laurent colors in all their pinkish-red glory. Two rows of hatches on both sides hid cannons that operated on gunpowder enchanted by the best pyromancers to be more combustible and fired a variety of ammunition with a variety of purposes. Colossal metal plates covered the flanks, protecting every inch with a thick alloy. Upon the rear mast, on the upper deck, sat a pegged wheel with spokes like a wagon, and above it blue sails wrapped around crosswise lengths of timber connected to the deck on both sides by large, rope nets. The vessel, one of several prized battleships, was intended to escort the trade ships that gave House Laurent its famed wealth. However, Fiora thought that their current objective was worth _much_ more than the usual cargo. This ship in particular was by far the best, possessing the best firepower, the best reflective plating, and the best crew money could buy. It and its caretakers had stood the test of time, and so she had trusted her most valuable piece of property with them. Looking up at the behemoth now, she knew she made the right choice.

The woman in her arms was her only attention at the moment. Her throat was tight and tears threatened to flow once more, but she managed to hide her pain. Riven, in all of her strong independence, looked torn to shreds. The crimson in her eyes was a deep, guilty cherry, her voice cracking with every phrase. Her lover's distraught appearance comforted her to some degree; it was nice to see the exile was as anxious about the whole ordeal as she was.

They were wrapped in a bear hug, noses tickling each other.

"I don't want to go…" Riven complained.

"But you must, I know. You have told me," Fiora completed. Both sounded tired, though their rest the previous night had been plentiful even despite a rigorous "goodbye".

"I don't know how long I'll be gone," the blonde confessed.

Fiora had no comment for this, just cuddling closer.

"I won't stay any longer than I absolutely have to."

The Demacian still did not answer, opting to kiss her and assuage her contracting heart. It didn't work.

They parted, and the duelist stared up, catching the other woman's focus. Her lip trembled involuntarily as she pleaded, "Please just come back."

Riven nodded. "Of course." She sniffed herself, and added, "I promise."

The brunette shook her head and pulled the blonde even closer so they could barely breathe. She spat, "I do not give a damn about promises. You promised never to leave me, yet here we are."

The Noxian cringed, but didn't recoil. "I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do-."

The unusually squeaky voice cut her off, actual tears streaming down her taut cheekbones. "Just come back."

The kiss was passionate and painful, pleasant yet agonizing. It was soft and sweet, yet everywhere their skin touched it stung. Their hands wandered under shirts to grasp at backs and feel more of the sensation, angsty whimpers slipping from their covered mouths. Red nails scored across the other woman's already scarred flesh, trying to leave a mark that this woman, so courageous and complex, was hers. Every ounce, every drop of love she could muster the duelist poured through her lips and through her tongue, vainly attempting to communicate her adoration and need for the other woman. But Riven countered with equal valor, cradling Fiora with so much care and sorrow, and the Demacian knew that Riven had at least _some_ notion of what she felt for the blonde bombshell.

Their lips separated, strands of saliva stringing from their open mouths. It disappeared after her Riven broke the silence.

"I love you."

"And I love you." They hugged each other as tight as they could, and Fiora rasped, "Just come back to me."

"I will." It was equally as forced and difficult to say.

"I do not want words. I want you."

Riven nodded.

They half sobbed into each other's shoulders for so long they lost track of the minutes that passed. They rose their heads simultaneously, two pairs of watery eyes gazing at each other. It was time.

They hugged once more, then pried themselves from each other. They didn't kiss again; Riven wasn't sure she'd ever be able to leave if they did that again. And so, they squeezed their hands together, and Riven sauntered up the board.

"Au revoir, mon amor," the duelist whispered, arms crossed, figure drawn into itself.

Riven stopped, and pivoted just enough to make eye contact. "Goodbye, my angel. I will return." When she reached the top, the woman above stood at the railing and hollered, "I love you!"

A bell tolled, the sails unrolled, and the leviathan lurched forward.

"I love you!" Fiora called back, jogging and chasing after the ship until she could jog and chase no more. At this point, she waved and waved and waved.

As the schooner drifted away, she could spy her lover doing the same.

Fiora stayed there at the harbor, watching as the ship disappeared over the horizon. When she could no longer see the red flag flap in the blue sky, she lowered herself to the plank of wood beneath her and removed her shoes. Eyes at the meeting of sky and sea, she sat there at the end of the dock, toes tickling the water. Already, she missed the woman at sea, longing to stare into scarlet eyes and laugh at the way the woman's hair stuck upwards at the rear of her head. Already she felt cold and sad and lonely, but the torment had just begun.

The woman with the blue eyes and black hair sat there until sundown, staring out into the sea, waiting patiently for her lover to return.


	24. Chapter 24- The Beginning of the End

**Holy Hanna this is a long one. Yeah, this story is stretching on for a long time. There's been a lack of reviews recently (other than Gmp1000, I appreciate your input always, but I need more than one person typing stuff [don't read this as 'stop commenting', just excluding you from the naughty boys and girs]), and I'm addicted to those things. Please leave a review, and enjoy! Edit 1: Just fixing grammar, replacing overused words, added more spacing here and there for more dramatic effect.**

 **3 Weeks Ago**

There was fire.

Riven could see the flames from here, smell the acrid fumes and taste the ashen air from her perch upon the starboard side of the vessel a mile away. The village was alight, orange glow casting silhouettes of huts and shanties burning to the ground upon thick waves of smoke. The sky was dark and littered with ethereal beings, a waning, milky crescent low in the sky north of east as the night's curtain had just plunged the surface into shadow.

"Shit."

A voice from beside her, gruff, deep, and authoritative: "This is as far as we go."

She turned to the captain, a very dark-skinned male. A man originating from the tribes of the Kumungu Plague Jungles, he was kidnapped at an early age by pirates, though not early enough that it had prevented his native tongue from gracing him with heavy accent. For a decade, he'd lived a slave aboard that ship, and eventually the crew aboard the smugglers schooner trusted him enough to free him. He didn't leave for quite some time though, opting to stay with his friends until finally he yearned to be a captain himself. Renowned for his courage and skill at the helm, he caught the attention of many a plunderer, stole the hearts of many a woman, and effectively placed himself on the shitlist of every major nation. It was in the Demacian prisons where he first met Monsieur de Laurent who, after a brief interrogation, hired the mercenary to watch over his property. Literally unable to refuse, as turning down the generous offer would mean public execution, he cleaned up his act over the years and became one of the most trusted businessmen working for House Laurent. All this, he'd told the blonde over the span of the week the journey took. Now he stood on her left as she gazed at the shoreline, a leather tricorn just a few shades lighter than his own skin topping his head where smart, brown eyes stared outward.

"I understand," was her reply.

"Take the dingy," the man offered, gesturing to a swaying rowboat suspended by a complicated system of coarse rope and pulleys.

"Thank you, I will." She moved to leave, passing by several burley, armed men. The captain followed right behind her, waiting for her to clamber into the lifeboat.

She looked to him and instructed, "If I don't contact you by tomorrow evening, sail to the port at Xun-Shi and wait a week. If I don't see you then, return to Demacia."

"I will stay as long as I see fit," he retorted, uncharacteristically rude.

She recoiled, a mild snarl at her lips, but then he elaborated and it disappeared.

"My orders are to return you safe and sound to the hands of Mademoiselle de Laurent." At this, he procured a pistol with a flared muzzle. He broke the action at the hinge, inserted a single, red shell, reclasped the break action, and handed the tiny thing to her. "If you are ever in need of assistance, fire this over the area you wish to… 'disappear'."

She took the pistol, turned it over in her hands, then deposited the flare gun into her satchel at her side. "Alright. Then I suppose I'll see you by tomorrow's morn."

"That I will." He turned to one of his crew and signaled. The pulleys creaked, the ropes groaned, and the dingy lowered into the sea.

The water was dark as the sky, yet there were no sparkling lights radiating from the murky depths. Riven was never afraid of her surroundings, but if she were attacked by anything in her current environment, there wasn't much she could do. She imagined a giant serpent beaching, saw the sharp, elongated teeth, the pink gullet that gave way to an endless black that would swallow her whole. She shivered; it was still winter, and not only was it night, the icy cold that occasionally spilled over the brink froze her skin where it touched. Her breath crystalized before her eyes, and she regretted wearing her old garb. Fiora had insisted she bring a proper set of gear, but the blonde had unwisely opted to defer to her old reliable. At least she still had the heavy, rawhide cloak to warm her ears and back.

The boat's keel bumped against the dock, and she hastily tied the raft down before hopping out.

Bodies littered the ground, some as young as five and others as old as sixty or seventy. Most were peasants, but to Riven's surprise there were Ionian warriors among the dead as well. Some corpses adorned papyrus plates done up in the signature Ionian way, katanas, glaives, and longbows gripped tightly by dead hands. Rank pools of blood, gore, piss, and mud covered the sand and stained wooden decks. Crackling, roaring fires spat sparks and black smoke and devastated homes, the stark, putrid scent of burning flesh joining the cacophony of awful smells. Most of this was standard for any typical raid, but after close examination several facts stood out.

There was no green, sickly bile that melted all within sight, decaying anything and everything it oozed over. Normally, great piles of the toxic stuff drenched the town, liquid death spilling into every crack and crevice, creating an evil, emerald wildfire that hungrily consumed the living and the dead alike.

Some had survived the onslaught. Running frantically about, screaming and shouting, they dashed to and fro. Mothers and fathers searched for their children, while orphans wailed their heartbreaking melody as they called for their mamas and papas that would never again rush to their aid. No soldiers were present however- they all lay face first in the dirt.

Speaking of soldiers, as she surveyed the graveyard she saw no Noxian colors. Brutal armor and wickedly curved sabers did not join the others, no darker-skinned bodies numbered among the rest. That was very strange; Noxus never retrieved their own dead, opting to let them become a feast for crows when the necromancers arrived to clean up the mess they made. And stranger still was the corpses of the Ionian brigade. Neat, precise cuts and jabs placed in specific areas to ensure maximum lethality: this was not how the typical Noxian soldier operated. Brutish and savage, the cadavers the average unit left were largely unrecognizable from the wounds inflicted. These dead were not like this. These dead were cut down with skillful, accurate blows.

A woman knocked into the blonde's shoulder, shaking her from her trance. The Noxian looked to the sixty-something year old that clung desperately to her shoulders. The woman said nothing, only stared with eyes haunted by loss and unadulterated terror as pained shrieks echoed in the background. Riven tried to remove her, but the old lady's grip was iron, and when the force applied became too strong, the woman tumbled to the ground and stilled completely. Riven worried that she'd accidentally killed her, but she could hear faint breathing, so she moved on.

She traveled onward through the wreckage, passing survivors wrapped in the fetal position, bawling over lost family, or just staring blankly into nowhere. Her feet carried her down a familiar path.

Faint weeping near her destination. A single heartbeat.

She rounded the corner. Haruto kneeled there, hunched over and clutching something. To his right, a womanly figure lay motionless, and in front of him his home was ablaze. All seemed so silent; there were no faded screams, just a soft sobbing. She neared slowly, not wanting to startle him.

As she came closer, she realized he was holding someone to his chest, arms pressing the body tightly to his frame that seemed so fragile now. Riven was several feet behind him. The flames cast enough light on the other figure's face that she could recognize the lone body as his wife, Izumi. Then that could only leave…

' _No_ ,' she thought, horrified at the reality.

She kneeled beside him, placed a hand gently on his shoulder, and stared at the body of Kumiko. The young girl was much older now, looking to be a young adult. She was beautiful now, with flawless skin hidden beneath a flowy night gown of cotton. Long, blonde hair swayed in the breeze, large flowers tied strand by strand, and those gorgeous eyes set in a soft face were eternally open, glaring at the sky in abject fear.

Haruto raised his head and gazed at Riven as if she were a stranger. Empty and sorrowful, his gaze did not shift for a long time.

"I… I…" There were no words that could describe her sympathy for his loss.

His head hung again, and he cried. The Noxian stroked her fingers through flaxen tresses, and found that the body was still warm. He trembled as he sobbed, so defeated and looking so much older than he was.

"Haruto, what happened?" Riven urgently requested.

No answer, just weeping.

"Haruto, please. I need to know-." The old man shifted, pulling Kumiko farther inward, raising her so her back was more visible. Something caught the blonde's eye. She reached out tentatively, grasping a cool metal objet imbedded into the young girl's back, and pulled the thing out.

A throwing knife, unbalanced, long blade tipped with a translucent green venom covered in blood.

She'd seen this blade once before. It had been flying past her head at Mach 5, but she remembered the odd shape, the large, swirling dragon engraved upon smooth silver. Twelve years had passed, but she could recall every detail of the woman who threw it, right down to her scent: a stomach-churning mix of blood and lotus flower.

Her knuckles turned white, she was gripping the knife so hard. She should have been over it by now. She should have walked away then, retreat to the boat and never return to this accursed island where everything died.

Instead, she rose, placed the kunai into her satchel, and told the mourning man in a voice so devoid of emotion it spooked even her:

"I'll be back."

ooooo

Riven knew exactly where they were heading. There was no real reason to invade this particular spot; the seas were heavily patrolled by Ionian flagships and there was nothing besides fish that could give either side an advantage. Except the Hirana Monastery.

Riven didn't know if they were targeting Lee Sin specifically, or just his martial art in general, but the monastery was no doubt their target. What tracks they left lead her up the cobbled path she'd traveled down ten years ago, but she had no time to lose herself in nostalgia. The wind at her back, she almost flew up the incline, sprinting at breakneck speed and displacing loose stones, snow, and earth. The leafless trees reached after her when she was gone, white mounds of precipitation showering to the ground. The stinging cold of the air as it passed only served to fuel her drive and push her farther forward.

A heartbeat. No, three heartbeats. Even. Calm. Unsuspecting. Up ahead.

She didn't stop, even when she neared them. She did redirect her path, delving into the dead wood so as not to be too obvious. The tree line was approaching. Chilly snow billowed behind her as the balls of her feet pounded the frozen dirt beneath her.

As she burst from the woody covering and into the clearing, she spied her prey. Three soldiers, but not ordinary soldiers, perused the area round a campfire. Two men and one woman wore little armor, sporting helmets that fully encapsulated their heads. The helmet itself was a pitch black, but the faceplate was a blood-red skull with no mandible. Chainmail covered the neck until the shoulders, where long, surprisingly luxurious capes of the same red as the helmets draped over sable pauldrons that protected upper arms. A plate of metal covered the high chest, chrome tendrils creating intricate designs upon the ebony background, and the lower abdomen was covered once in more chain, and a gambeson beneath that for added protection. Hands and lower forearms were covered in black vambraces and gauntlets. Front thighs and crotch wore more plate dark as night, with more of the chainmail-gambeson combination covering everywhere that knee-high, onyx, metal greaves didn't. Around their necks dangled pendants- scarlet skulls above two crossed sabers on a circle of obsidian.

The Crimson Elite.

That would explain why there were no bodies. These were the best of the best of the best. Under normal circumstances, Riven refrained from killing Noxians on the spot. Yes, many were murders, but that wasn't exactly their fault. Monsters made monsters, and some infinitesimal glimmer of hope fed her lies that maybe, just maybe she could open their eyes and realize what their superiors were asking them to do. To this day, it had never worked, but she still hung on.

These men and women, on the other hand, were under an entirely different category. They were handpicked by the commanders of the wraith-like legion, which meant they believed in their cause. They were conscious of their actions, and yet they still slaughter innocents and involve those that don't need to be involved. She did not object to ending people like these.

So no, she didn't slow down as she approached the first man.

He did not see the blade that severed his head from his body, see the fierce determination in eyes red like the liquid that spattered to the white canvas below. The second, the woman who sat beside him, heard the tussle and twisted in time to witness the same blade do the same to her. The final man noticed the commotion, and he turned around.

But it was too late for him too- Riven was midair as she leapt from his dead comrades to him. The blonde hadn't slowed, and so when she buried her broken blade into his chest, piercing through steel, he was carried up, then slammed downward into the blanket of snow. Riven ducked as she hit the ground, rolled forward, than sprung upward and regained her feet. She bolted and continued her trek. She had to reach Sin before _she_ did..

ooooo

What had once taken her an entire night to traverse she crossed in half an hour. As she reached the summit, she was barely winded despite the shortage of air at this elevation, snow caking her boots (the only part of Fiora's advice she _did_ follow). She expected more flames, maybe screaming, but as she looked down upon the valley on the mountaintop, however that worked, there were none. The trees were without leaves, the ponds frozen over and glistening drearily, and the stone monuments appeared bigger when they weren't poking their heads over a sea of green. The wildlife was absent, and all was completely quiet.

The Crimson Elite were considered immortal by practically everyone. This, not the many brutal wars they waged, was possibly Noxus' greatest feat. The soldiers of this unit were proficient in all forms of combat, including sorcery, and they were forced through a downright inhumane training system where many would often die. This left only the top dogs, the people who, when they walked through the bowels of Hell, could scare away demons. Rarely are any of them every injured, let alone killed in the line of action, and when any of them are, they ensure that there are no witnesses. The day after a soldier falls, a newbie is recruited and gifted the deceased's gear. This promised that there were always fifty, never more, never less, and because no one ever witnessed them die, the common folk just assumed that they could not die.

But Riven knew they could die. They lived as humans, and they would die as humans.

Fifty. She'd killed three. That left forty-seven. Riven's strength had never been stealth, so she had to plan on facing forty-seven of the world's best fighters head-on.

' _Fun._ '

ooooo

Gerard shivered next to a fire, gauntlets clamped under his armpits as his hands stretched out to greedily absorb the heat. Little flakes began to land on his exposed skin, and the man watched their graceful tumble from the heavens as his palms and fingers regained their color. If he were anywhere else, he would remove his boots and do the same, but as he was so close to the monastery where monks trained endlessly to fight, he preferred not to be caught with his pants down in enemy territory. This mission was very dangerous, and thus all fifty of his comrades joined him in his struggle against Mother Nature in the pitch of this wintery night. The clearing he was to guard was relatively close to the main gates where the others set charges and prepared to raid. A stray boulder here and there and a couple ponds, but other than that, the area was mostly wide open. A monument was at his back, a giant slab of stone inscribed with Ionian but he couldn't give a damn what it read. He was here to wipe out the inhabitants of the Hirana Monastery, not translate gibberish off of some stupid rock.

A few of his friends stalked the edges of the small field, lanterns held high and weapons at the ready. He couldn't see them now; they must be behind him. His own blade lounged against the rock behind him, an impressively crafted two-handed longsword that he wielded with grace.

The man shifted his gaze around the clearing. He couldn't see his comrades anywhere, not their lanterns or their bodies. He moved to retrieve his weapon, warning bells ringing incessantly in his ears. The snow ceased as soon as it began, and Gerard frowned as he realized that flakes hadn't rained anywhere else. He looked up.

Riven crashed down into the man, the steel of his armor creating a terrible din against the brick path as he slammed face first. She climbed off of him, allowing him some time to lift himself or call for help. When he did neither, only groan, she sighed. She would have to do this the hard way.

The man attempted a retaliation, darting for his sword and swinging at her ankles, but she stepped in, and his arm bounced harmlessly against her rooted feet. Before he could jump from his stomach, her foot raised then stomped downward, crushing his elbow beneath her boot.

" _Urgh-!_ " was all she got. His pain sensitivity training was excellent, but unfortunately for him, she needed him to scream.

"You really are gonna make me do this the hard way, aren't you?" she asked condescendingly. Though the man deserved what was coming, the green side of her disliked unnecessary violence.

"Fuck you."

"No thanks. I've got a girlfriend for that."

"Then fuck both of you," was the defiant response.

"You're exceptionally charming. You know that?" She kneeled next him and stared at the sockets of the skull as the man stayed angrily silent. "Listen up. There's an easy way and a painful way. I know you think that you're invincible, that your training will let you endure the toughest of tortures. But here's the thing."

She leaned in, eyes stony, and grumbled, "I want you to die. Your little drills where they throw a wet cloth over your head? Where they stick you in a dark room for days on end? Where they pluck your fingernails out one by one? At the end of the day, they don't want you dead. They won't play with your intestines as you bleed out into the dirt. They won't cut out your tongue and shove it down your gullet. They won't roast your balls over a hot fire. But I will."

He was still silent, though he was squirming a little more now.

"We can skip all that and cut to the chase if you'll just give me one, good holler for your friends."

"What, so you could kill them, too?" He was stalling, probably hoping a patrol would notice and free him.

"Yes. But I'm going to kill you too anyway, so it doesn't matter in that aspect. I'm trying to save you some pain, just go with it." She wasn't exasperated, just eager to get it all over with.

"I won't beg," he spat.

She shifted and stood, struck the back of his head once to keep him dazed, then dragged him to his knees. "Oh, you will." Her fingers found the clasps stapling the red faceplate to the helm, and she pried the mask off, revealing a younger, handsome male. "Everyone begs eventually."

Two fingers from her right hooked under his upper incisors while two from her left did the same with the bottom row. She held him firm, ensured her grip was strong and capable, and slowly applied pressure. Speed was key; too fast and the shock might eliminate the pain. Too slow and he might drown in his own blood before he really started howling.

Her muscles did not strain much as she pulled. He was confused at first, but once she didn't stop, he started groaning and flailing his arms. They escalated into loud yelps as the pain increased, but it wasn't enough. So she applied more pressure.

The flesh at the corner of his mouth started to rip, and slowly, gradually, the tear worsened. He was screaming now, and she could hear light footsteps from not far. She had to wrap things up. She applied more pressure.

A sickening _pop!_ as tendons tore. A gut-wrenching _crunch!_ as the bones of his jaw cracked and broke under the tension. He was really screaming now: a blood-curdling, high-pitched shriek of agony as she tore his jaw from his face. His hands scrabbled at her arms, clawed gloves scratching at the immovable woman causing him so much torment.

' _Just a little more…_ '

With a final, awful sound of flesh tearing away from flesh and bone ripping from bone, the man's entire mandible was wrenched from face. His tongue wiggled, like some disgusting worm, and his scream nearly ruptured her eardrums. She released him, and he collapsed to the snow, squirming and screeching for help, for an end, for anything to make the pain go away. Crimson spurted from the wound and soaked the icy pavement.

Someone was upon her. At her 7 o'clock, someone charged her. Her blade, already wet, slipped from its her sheath. She twisted counter-clockwise, dropped down to dodge the diagonal strike from above, then jabbed in and upward, bypassing his armor and crushing through the mail to spear his heart.

Another from behind her: a split attack.

She withdrew the blade, and in the same motion, pirouetted to bat at the short sword stabbing for her lower back. The skull-faced warrior was smaller, obviously a woman and, as the blonde jabbed upwards to jam the fragmented dagger through the bottom of her chin to pierce the brain, obviously dead.

She pulled the sword from the woman to face the third opponent: a large brute with a spear and a kite shield as wide and tall as she was. He moved in with haste, and when she stepped in to striking range, he took the bait and thrust. She parried, then threw the pike outside of her silhouette to her left. Riven stepped forth so she was only one stride away, then kicked the shield from his body, hooking her left ankle around the left edge. With no weapon and no shield, he was an easy kill: a simple stab up and under his chest piece ended his life, and she booted him away as he gurgled.

Riven surveyed the area. Everyone was running toward her now. Their capes undulating behind them, their weapons in hand, their eternally grinning, scarlet skulls sprinted through skeletal trees, the pitch blackness of the night adding to the spectral theme. They looked like demons running through an obsidian Hell to catch the lone wander that dared to pass through the gates.

Riven was not afraid. They were strong and fast, but she was stronger and faster. Her head cocked to one side, and her neck popped. Hand in hand, she cracked her knuckles. She rolled her shoulders and the stiffness disappeared. She knew this area well; she'd spent three years walking the paths and enjoying the sights. They were fighting an enemy in its homeland. The statistics of winning such a battle were not in their favor.

They'd arrived. She sauntered forward.

The first to meet her dashed at her with an ornate, cruelly barbed spear aimed at her chest. She sidestepped into the arm closer to the blade of the pike, grabbed the steel shaft, and threw him in the direction he was already heading.

Her momentum carried her to make a full rotation, and she parried the sword strike that was supposed to cut at her right knee, throwing the edge away. Her own returned and horizontally swiped the person's throat open from the right. They staggered and fell, but Riven was too busy decapitating the woman with another horizontal slash from the opposite direction to notice.

She turned around to glare at two soldiers at her rear. One was the spearman from before and the other was another sword-wielding male. They attacked simultaneously, the spearman attempting the same move from before while the other swiped at her belly. She rolled between them, dodging both. She stood, still spinning, and as they turned, they could only watch as the blade traveled cleanly through the throat of the swordsman, then the spearmen in the same, wide arc. Two heads landed in the snow, blood fountaining from their gaping injuries, and shoved both bodies into a pack of four approaching from the front. They ploy worked and they all stumbled to evade, and she used the time to take care of the other two trying to blindside her from the rear.

Both were women, and both were small. The left carried a sword proportionally sized to fit her, and the right held a dagger in one hand and a short sword in the other. The left attacked in a downward diagonal blow that would cleave through the crease in her left shoulder while the right tried to stab at her stomach. She took one stride forward, batting the right's attack downward where it jabbed harmlessly at air. The other woman's forearm glanced off her shoulder and her blow was rendered useless. Riven's fingers of her free hand wrapped firmly around the left's neck, and her shattered sword speared through the bottom of the right's chin. She hoisted both upwards, then threw them to the ground. The right was dead, but the left, whose impact had been softened by snow and padded armor, was still breathing. Her fingers squeezed tightly, her thumb torqueing the small woman's head at an awkward angle until a shriek accompanied a crunch and she stilled.

Blood spew from the wound as she retracted her sword and turned to face the others. Three more had joined and were almost within a dangerous range. She needed to dispatch this group before the next arrived and trapped her.

She sidestepped the first to the left, an arc of scarlet following her glowing blade as it cut through the man's neck. Then, she evaded to the right and did the same to the person behind him before plunging into the horde.

They were not expecting such a move as it seemed suicide, but their moment of hesitation was their downfall. A powerful hand grasped a wrist and threw them past the blonde to collide with the others behind her. A sweeping diagonal strike from the top right killed a man in front of her, but she doubled back anyways, deepening the meaty, bloody canyon with a second blow up the same wound.

Her weapon suspended above her head, she dared someone to attack. A tug of her gut behind her told that a challenger had answered the call. She pivoted so quickly no one could react and interrupted the man's strike with a diagonal blow from the upper left. This was not a simple slice, however; the fragmented sword buried hilt deep, and didn't stop its journey across the man's torso. From his shoulder to his opposite armpit, she completely severed the entire top third of his body and the gory spectacle slid off before the legs buckled.

Riven wind milled the blade around her head, forcing those behind her to back off, and chopped off the skull-capped mug of the woman beside the man in pieces. She allowed inertia to take control, spinning on a single heel until she possessed enough force. The man tried to block the horizontal blow, but the cursed saber rent entirely through his blade and, to his sheer horror, continued through to lop off everything above his stomach.

More poured into the clearing. Everything became a blur; Riven did not move of her accord, trusting her instinct and senses to cooperate and realize the best course of action.

Someone tried to separate her head from her body. She ducked, spun, and struck their abdomen. The cursed edge sundered through the chainmail, ribbons of vermillion sparkling between broken rings midair that scattered from the impact point and showered the snow.

A parry and a thrust, and another fell with a hole where their heart should be.

Three attacked at once, two with swords and daggers and one with a spear. She dashed right, spilling the woman's intestines, then doubled back, gashing open a throat and crushing the other's esophagus with her free hand.

Two more wraiths sprinted, cloaks flowing, but she impaled one, redirecting his momentum to the ground, and backstabbed the one that had passed before he could regain his bearings, twisting the hilt to disconnect the spinal cord and increase damage dealt to his heart.

She retreated, wind carrying her as she leapt to another loner and cut him down with a diagonal strike. As soon as the blow had been committed, she jumped to another across the way, and did the same there, pirouetting as she soared through the frosty air. To complete the set of three, she sprung upward, front flipping multiple time to gain speed before she brought it down. The unlucky recipient was a man with a rapier- an odd choice of weapon for battle, for its use was fairly limited- and as easily as one cuts through a wheel of cheese, the edge sliced him right down the middle. As the two symmetrical pieces separated, the mushy contents of his stomach and other internal organs spilled into the white floor to create an appalling puddle of humanly fluids.

A short pause.

Warriors lined the edge of the woody forest around the small field. If she'd kept count correctly, there should be about twenty of them left. The blonde used the time to clean her weapon, wiping one side after the other on the bandages of her forearm. She didn't actually require the wrappings anymore, thanks to Fiora's miracle cream, but habit compelled her to do so anyways. When she finished, she twirled the dagger dexterously between her fingers, allowing them to think up a plan.

They all charged at once. Powdery snow trailed after the phantoms that descended upon her like a cohesive wave. Shields ran first- a smart tactic, but it would not save them.

As the circle of death contracted, there was an eerie absence of war cries. The only sound was of the pounding footsteps of approaching soldiers, the whoosh as the wind parted to accommodate their flying forms. They were like ghosts, but these ghosts could die again and would die again.

At the last second, Riven vaulted at a burly woman holding a full-body shield. The woman almost lost her balance as the blonde nimbly landed atop the huge, black expanse of metal, then push herself off. The exile brought the Runic Windblade back behind her head, looked down to see an ivory circle shrinking as the moments passed, then prepared for impact.

The timing was impeccable. The runes illuminated as she landed, eyes glowing a brilliant, vibrant emerald, and just as multiple weapons were to mince her into many pieces, the supercharged blade connected.

This was no ordinary Ki blast. As the tip of enchanted steel touched the earth hidden by layers of frost, an explosion of pure energy threw particles of snow into the eyes of her foes. Thick, loud tendrils of crackling, green lightening sparked and spider webbed, searing gaping, singed holes all the way through chests. The recipients of such a violent outburst of focused power spazzed for the briefest moment, then fell, jade embers popping and sizzling in the wounds.

The survivors took five steps back, noticing how her broken sword was whole, and how her entire form was shielded with a translucent green. When an archer recovered from their daze and loosed an arrow, the thing bounced off of her forehead comically.

Riven turned to look at the offender. She swore she could hear the woman gulp.

She was in front of her in an instant, rocketing the impossible distance to cleave the woman into halves. A bowman nearby realized he could not defeat her, and attempted a retreat, but in a flash she was by him and he too, was split into two, his upper half flailing through the air.

For the first time ever, the last of the Crimson Elite finally realized they were outmatched, but it was far too late to run.

They scattered, but the blond followed. There was only one exit from the valley, and almost all sprinted straight towards it.

The exile took to the trees. A group of three ran side by side, throwing glances over their shoulders. Her cloak swelling, swirling, and rolling behind her, she appeared an angel of death as she descended, and with her colossal, gore-ridden instrument of war, the angel with broken wings sundered through all three in spectacular fashion.

The next straggler to die was a man with a small shield. When she emerged from the shadows in her sparking, furious final form, he feebly attempted to prevent his immediate death with his square sheet of metal. The Runic Windblade didn't care about ruining the amazing carved artwork of a skull upon the shield, riving the thing- and the man behind it- in two.

The last was so close to freedom, but as he rounded the crest to begin the arduous trek down the mountain stairs, a sharp howl of pain erupted from his masked mouth, and suddenly he could no longer feel his legs. Trails of crimson pumped from the two stumps that were once powerful thighs as adrenaline forced him through the pain to survive. A foot kicked him to his back, and he reflexively covered his head, cowering away.

The blonde, still supercharged, raised the tip above his sternum. Her expression was grim, angry, and green, eyes casting light over his figure that seemed so small now that it was he whom Death knocked for.

"No, don't-!" he cried as she plunged the weapon into his chest. He scuffled briefly, armored hands scratching at the cursed thing that killed him as his blood corrupted the milky snow he lay upon, a wide patch of dark red growing ever wider as seconds passed.

One final struggle. One last "Urgh!" of pain. Then nothing.

His head fell to the scarlet carpet below him, and just like that, the Crimson Elite was no more.

ooooo

She stilled for a moment, hands grasping the handle, head bowed against the hilt, heart hammering. Riven inhaled deeply, then exhaled. Icy breathe fogged the shiny steel as she willed her jumpy nerves to calm, then she raised her head and dismissed the shattered fragments. The light binding the pieces together disappeared, and her personal shield dissipated.

Her eyes traveled upward to gaze at the godly crescent high in the sky that had witnessed the bloodbath that left the frozen earth splattered with red. Her rosy cheeks burned in the chill of the night. Her eyelids felt cold against her eyeballs as she basked in the winter's wind that soothed her flushed flesh. Flakes began to spiral down and tangle between eyelashes, steadily filling the atmosphere with frozen water. She was unworried now, but she did not relax.

Riven wasn't finished yet. If the haze of battle didn't distort her memory, the person she'd come to kill hadn't quite died yet. She wondered if the woman was already in the monastery, slashing throats and flinging venomous steel. The blonde started toward the temple, ready to resume the hunt when-

 _The shimmer of a blade cutting through wind as it flew toward an artery ._

-Never mind.

Thousands of years of the animal instinct to survive guided her free hand to snatch the lethal projectile from its trajectory. Her ashen head turned, eyes raking over the knife, analyzing the thing completely. Even after twelve years, the design was exactly the same.

An unfocused figure in the background stood twirling glimmering death between slender fingers, black, gnarly forest behind her and thick, chilly globules of snow outlining her form. Riven began the same maneuver, conscious of the redhead not twenty feet away. The smooth edge sung as it passed between calloused digits, gradually gaining speed as the knife danced fluidly.

Then faster than anyone could blink, the chrome edge was clamped between thumb and index finger, curled into the chest, and flung, slicing fancy droplets in two as it soared to its target. Riven was a pretty shitty shot, but it was hard to miss when the air around her acted upon the little kunai.

The malevolent redhead cried out as the thing lodged into the intricate tattoo gracing the side of her abdomen. Bullseye.

Riven stared into poisonous green irises that glared with unadulterated hostility at her own crimson.

"Hello, Katarina."

Even-tempered. Untroubled.

A _shlick!_ and the other woman wrenched the blade from her kidney, gripping the tool in fury. Thin trails of blood spilled from the laceration, marring the obsidian ink as it dripped down immaculate, pale flesh.

"Hello, brat."

Wrathful. Ticked off. Something else too, something she couldn't place right now.

The woman with burgundy locks began to skulk, light footsteps carrying her slim, fit figure in a circle. Riven followed suite, but she was not staring at the assassin. Instead, her eyes were locked forward, admiring the view and walking slowly.

"Why did you come?" the woman snarled. She almost seemed surprised, but then again, the blonde was supposed to be dead, wasn't she? The redhead looked a little more surprised than the exile deemed appropriate, and she filed the note away.

Riven looked at her, locking gazes with the menacing woman as their feet crunched ice, snow cascading around the pair.

"Was it to save the _fools_ that have locked themselves in their little fortress?" A grin spawned, lecherous but evil, and her hips swayed dramatically. Her tone sultry, she rumbled, "~Did you finally decide to take me up on my _offer?_ ~"

The blonde eyed her, analyzing the curves and the undeniably attractive figure before her. Simply to entertain a thought, she wonder if the redhead would be on her would-bang list, were she that type of person. After a few moments of speculation, she concluded with satisfaction that she'd already tasted the fruits of Eden, and thus she could not go back.

"I came for you."

"~Oh, you will, _darling_. You will.~" She licked her scarlet lips.

The blonde expertly quelled the urge to clock her then and there. The exile preferred not to appear as some emotional basket-case, able to be played with by anyone with skills to perform such an act.

"You know what I mean."

The sexual nature gave way to unbridled rage and… betrayal. Again, there was more than what seemed appropriate. "And so you kill fifty good men and women just so you can have _me?_ " she spat. It seemed the assassin cared for her troops, after all.

The blonde shook her head, reverting her gaze to stare straight forward as the two predators stalked each other. "That's the thing, Katarina. You've been stuck in your own echo chamber for all your life. All you know is that only the strong deserve to survive. The weak will die eventually, so why even bother trying to help?"

"Oh, spare me your rhetoric, _deserter_." The word was sharp but it did not hurt the exile. There were definitely hints of betrayal, and seemed almost hurt.

"Shut up, I'm talking," Riven commanded. "I once thought those things too. It's all you hear inside the city walls. I imagine it's still that way, isn't it?" She angled her head briefly to glance at the silent glare and assumed her assumption was correct. "After a certain burgundy-haired bitch decided my crew wasn't important enough to save-," here she turned and glared hatefully, allowing animosity to show for a single second, "- I decided I didn't like the echo chamber, and so I left. And do you know what I found, Katarina?"

"I have no fucking clue. Enlighten me, won't you _darling?_ " she cooed sarcastically.

"I found that the definition of good and evil isn't as black and white as you led me to believe."

The redhead cackled, locks of wine-red hair flowing in waves of snow as her head was thrown back. "Oh, my _darling Riven_ , you've gone soft! Just look at yourself, preaching about _morals_ when you've already killed so many!"

The edge of the exile's lip raised, baring a triangle of teeth. "You don't get to call me that."

The sauntering assassin's face curled into conclusion. "Call you what, darling?" The blonde could see realization hit her, and a smug grin spread across the redheads face. "Have you found a _special someone_?" she mocked.

No response.

"Oh, Riven, you cannot _not_ tell me who it is after a revelation like that! What do they look like? Does he have a strong jawline, dreamy eyes, and a seven-inch cock?" She was all too eager to know. All too eager.

The whole seven-inch cock thing was a bit weird to add in a physical description, but considering the redhead's insatiable desire to bed her, the blonde wasn't all that surprised. For some reason she couldn't explain, she decided to play her game. She gave no reaction. ' _No_.'

"Is he soft and plump and fragile?"

No reaction.

"Is he even a _he_?" she queried with a curious frown.

A slight twitch of the eye. The blonde did her best to make the movement look natural, and apparently it worked.

A mildly surprised expression. "So you _do_ fuck girls…" More than slight disappointment flashed across the woman's face. There actually was a possibility that the assassin could've at one point had a piece of that fine ass, but the time for diplomacy had passed long ago.

As snow still poured and they still circled round and round, carving a well-trodden path in their wake, Katarina was still not satisfied. "Is she a strong, butch, Noxian woman?"

' _No_.'

"Yeah, I didn't peg you as the type," the assassin admitted, as if they were old friends. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea. "Is the lady a buxom wench from Bilgewater?"

' _No_.'

"Hmm…."

Riven examined the way the woman moved, recalling their one-sided clash years ago to try and figure out her strategy.

"Is she a posh elite from the high society of Piltover?"

' _No._ '

"Hmm… Perhaps a sickness has overtaken your mind and you have fallen for the enemy. Is she Ionian?"

The twitch wasn't as drastic this time, hinting, ' _Close, but not quite._ '

Content with her detective work, the redhead contemplated just who they could be. "I was half right, but the question is what half… Hmmm…."

A thought occurred. A blasphemous thought, judging by the way eyes narrowed, and accusing undertones invaded her drawling voice as she asked, "Is she… _Demacian?_ "

A big twitch. ' _Bingo_.'

Katarina's eyes went wide. She faltered in her footing. And she laughed a piercing, screechy laugh that could be heard for miles, no doubt. "A _Demacian_! Noxus' posterchild has fallen in love with a _Demacian_! Oh that's rich!"

There was also an aftertaste of… bitterness? envy? in her stance and accent. Something lurked in the waters, something strange.

She recovered, actually wiping tears from her scarred eye as she halted and turned. "What an absolute _travesty_ you've become!"

"Maybe I am, Katarina. Maybe I am. But at least I don't get off on slashing throats and killing children," she barked. They stopped and faced each other now, gentle flakes mixing with ashen and burgundy hair, toxic green irises staring at pools of blood.

HH"It's really not that bad, Riven. You should try it sometime." A smirk that boiled her blood, and she cocked her head off-center. "Oh wait!"

Eyes closed briefly. When they opened, there was still hatred and fury and rage but it was drowned in bloodlust. "That was a mistake. I'm here for absolution."

Katarina chuckled dismissively. "If I recall correctly, the last time you searched for ' _absolution_ ', I almost killed you, darling."

Riven, annoyed by the redhead's lack of awareness, huffed disbelievingly. "Katarina, look around you." She kicked the dismembered leg she brooded by. "I just murdered the entirety of the world's greatest task force in one sitting, and you have the audacity to question my ability to end you?"

"Well," the assassin looked around as if the answer were obvious, regaining eye contact and confirming condescendingly, "I believe that's what I said, darling."

"Then _you_ are the fool," Riven insisted with stony confidence.

The redhead cackled loudly, the pitch forcing the blonde to flinch. "What would you have me do, darling? Throw down my _weapons_? Kneel, and _offer_ my neck?" she taunted incredulously.

"No," Riven shook her head. Her grasp on her weapon tightened, sensing the nearing of the climax. "That would take the fun out of it."

A smile, equal parts malicious, eager, and impressed. "Spoken like a true Noxian."

Total silence.

No movement besides the drizzle of frost steadily caressing both figures. Visible breath blew from two sets of nostrils. Two kunai rested in the palms of the barely-clothed assassin, zipping and dodging between four digits cut by countless hours of practice. A sword, broken but still wholly usable, hung from the unbreakable clutch of a single hand. One glared at the other, a smile on painted red lips and a line unreadable on the chapped other. Tension clung on each, individual snowflake that disrupted their locked gaze.

Time stopped. All stilled.

Riven stepped forward.

A razor flew to meet her, and she swatted the thing away.

Another step, and another knife flung at her throat. Again, her free hand deflected it, the silver planting itself into the crust of ice.

Another step forward. This one went unimpeded as Katarina was reloading, hands shoved into the belts at her thighs, grasping a kunai between each knuckle.

Riven stepped forward again. She was almost there.

As she cautioned another stride, the assassin acted. Flipping and twisting at the same time, she launched herself backwards away from the approaching warrior. Suddenly knives seemed to spawn from the redhead's turning torso, and a rain of toxic razor blades hailed from above.

The blonde rolled forward and to the left, a trail of blades periodically following the indent of her progress in the snow. When the assassin landed, Riven was waiting for her. The redhead tried to jump forward and plant a leather heel on Riven's chest to vault backwards, hopefully throwing the blonde off balance, but as her foot scrabbled to find the exile's bust midair, a strong hand wrapped around the ankle.

Riven stepped forward once more, twisting and trying to redirect the woman's momentum to slam into the mattress of snow. But inches from the ground, the redhead disappeared in a red flash of light.

Behind and above: that was what instinct told her. Sure enough, as she pivoted the assassin reappeared, gripping a single short sword in her left hand held reverse. As the redhead fell from above, Riven strode forward again, stepping to intercept the woman before she landed.

Katarina saw what the blonde was doing, made a futile attempt to land elsewhere before the exile's shoulder connected with her stomach. It was more like the other way around, but either way the assassin couldn't breathe. The blonde hefted her up, then threw the woman into the snow.

This time she did not teleport away, and Riven saw her chance.

The runes on her Windblade pulsed with anticipation as she recoiled, then drove the fragmented blade through Katarina's stomach.

The redhead cried out as the sword pinned her to the earth. A short pause before the assassin wailed in pain again as the shattered blade was ripped from her stomach. A thick ribbon of blood trailed away with the point of the sword and spattered into the white earth.

Katarina scrambled away, frenzied scratching at the earth, clinging to what purchase she could get as she crawled away on all fours, her abdomen steadily trailing crimson. She stood and turned to find the warrior already pursuing her. A wild tinge invaded venomous eyes as her right hand palmed the wound, applying pressure and attempting to stifle the bleeding. Viscous strings flowed between her fingers despite her efforts.

She stumbled backward, hunched over, teeth grinding together. The barbed short sword was still feebly grasped in her left hand. Riven still stalked towards her, and as she neared she loosed a battle screech to hide the scream of agony as she swiped randomly.

The strike was a diagonal downward from the blonde's left. An opportunity arose, and instead of parrying she performed the same strike from the other direction. The edge of the Windblade connected so solidly, so perfectly perpendicular, and with so much power the assassin's blade snapped clean in two. Shocked, the redhead stood no chance of evading the boot whose heel struck her injury dead on.

The assassin would've screamed, but she couldn't; the agony was too great to even breathe, and as she lay on her back in the snow, she convulsed before rolling over onto her hands and knees. Her stomach lurched painfully and she vomited black blood all over the ground before her. A boot kicked her side hard, and she found herself staring up at scarlet irises.

"Get up," the blonde barked.

Wheezing, the redhead complied, glaring with malice Riven had never seen before. Her right hand, caked in slimy, crusty crimson, fumbled for the second blade at her back while her left clotted the hole in her stomach, requiring a few separate attempts before she was able to hold it sturdily enough to draw the wicked steel.

Satisfied that she was now fighting an opponent capable of defended itself, the exile continued the assault.

Attempting an odd angle of attack, the redhead swung upward diagonally from the right. The move required the assassin to torque her wrist in an odd way, and in the end Riven easily parried, then broke her nose with a fist strike to her face.

The redhead stumbled again, dazed and in shock. Drops of red dripped down over her lips then onto her chest. She impressively regained her footing, then sent a large, sweeping horizontal from the blonde's right. The exile parried, then copied the same move, the edge of the tip slicing deep into Katarina's left eye socket.

The woman didn't even yelp, just twisted, stumbled to the ground, and staggered back to her feet. Her left eye now sported two scars: one fresh, bleeding horizontal and one old, pink vertical. The eyelid was closed, and Riven figured the eye was toast as she resumed closing the distance.

Katarina turned animalistic, howling as she unleashed a series of random slashes, wincing with every strain of her muscle. The blonde stood rooted, blocking and parrying every swipe, strike, and arbitrary jab. Pissed off at having her ass handed to her, the assassin's weapon hand disappeared behind her head to perform a powerful, vertical strike.

But luck was not with her that day, and as she let loose, the effort caused a massive spike of pain in her abdomen and she faltered. The mistake was long enough for the blonde to make something of it, and as the slowed blow whipped over red tresses, Riven's left wrist raised to connect and halt the other woman's attack. There was no way for Katarina to dodge anything, and feeling a moment of unrestrained cruelness, she plunged the blade into her abdomen a second time. The redhead didn't make a peep, though she tried to, when the dagger impaled her left hand and pinned it to her own self. Her mouth opened, her eyes squeezed shut, and she gasped.

Eyelids opened, and just before the assassin vanished again, Riven saw something she didn't expect: sorrow.

ooooo

In a puff of red smoke, the woman teleported twenty feet ahead, landing on her rear. Her weapon still in hand, her feet kicked desperately at the snow, failing to make distance as her life force drained from two holes. She was in so much pain, but when her mouth opened, only a pathetic gurgle and more crimson liquid spurted out.

Her vison was hazy, her mind clouded in torment and her energy seeped through her lacerations, but she still knew Riven was advancing because the blob in front of her was growing bigger. She couldn't die like this. Not here, in this frozen fucking forest, and not at the hand of a filthy abandoner. Not by the blade of the woman she stalked endless hours through the halls of Noxus to "discover if she is worthy of the title of Crimson Elite". Not by the sword she'd ensured would be absolutely perfect for the new recruit and held its release for several days because of a minor flaw. Not by the person whom she'd thought she'd killed because she believed she'd grown too close. Not by the woman whose perceived death had torn at her sanity for years, who's assumed demise had almost been the cause of hers from grief. Not by the stubbornly, frustratingly attractive, dark-skinned beauty.

Not at the hand of someone she had once loved, and still loved. But it appeared just that was happening.

Still, she would not disappoint and lay here like a sack of meat and flesh. She would put up a fight, and then she would die, and all of the pain she'd endured, physical and mental, would all be over and she would finally have peace.

The woman grumbled, wobbled, scrabbled, and stood unsteadily. Gasping, hand on her wound, she raised the blade. One last war cry, so loud and bloodcurdling it could've shook the trees, and she blindly lunged.

ooooo

Katarina's heart wasn't in it. This was obvious to Riven as the screaming redhead charged. There was effort, but there was no drive, no plan of what to do if the attack succeeded. As if she wanted to die.

But Riven wasn't ready just yet.

As the tip neared her breast, the blonde sidestepped to the left, turned, and casually sent her blade in an upward arc. Enchanted steel carved first through flesh, then through stringy muscle, through spongy bone, then more muscle, and finally through more flesh on the other side. The appendage flew forward, following inertia before limply plopping into the snow. Fingers twitched and spasmed as scarlet oozed, the knife the thing once grasp loomed several feet away with the handle protruding skyward.

Katarina stared at the area her right arm had once occupied, examining the bloody stump that cut off just above the elbow. Toxic emeralds couldn't seem to ascertain any idea of what could explain the arm's absence, and she looked up at Riven confused. A bandaged hand reached out, firmly palmed the woman's chest, and pushed backwards.

The redhead gave no resistance. Silently, eyes straight forward, she collapsed flat on her back. Little clouds of snow kicked up and peppered her skin, fat flakes falling and slowly burying her. She didn't react as the blade that had separated her from her limb was flung into the snow a foot away from her face. She didn't react when the blonde straddled her waist, sifted through the rawhide satchel, and retrieved a blade like hers. Actually, it was hers.

The blonde leaned way in and fixed the woman with a glare. She seethed, "Do you know why I-?"

The redhead moved. Her eye shifted to look at Riven with a familiar sheen. The arm she had left reached up, snagged the nape of the surprised exile's neck, and pulled her in. There was no small amount of the coppery tang of blood, but other than that, Katarina's lips tasted just like she remembered. The exile's eyes widely stared at the other's closed, not understanding what exactly happened. A tongue forced its way into her mouth, sloppily writhing without finesse, and that was what eventually snapped her out of her confused trance.

They separated with a loud _pop!_ and Katarina's hand fell to the snow.

"What the Hell?!" Riven demanded. She stared into those venomous irises, and she knew.

She knew.

Big, sad eyes wept few tears, but there were still tears. Her expression was deep depression, anguish, and angst. As the head lolled to the side, those eyes stared straight ahead once again.

Riven was not touched by the revelation that Katarina… had feelings for her. The opposite occurred: her lip turned upward into a fierce snarl, her heart thumped ten thousand beats per minute, and her blood scorched her veins.

Her left hand violently gripped the assassin's jaw and with more force than required she twisted the woman's head so she looked her in the eye. Again she leaned in close, dagger in right palm itching to cause havoc.

"Do you expect me take pity upon you? Do you think that I'll forget what you did to my unit? How you called in a fucking airstrike and wiped us off the fucking map?! Do you think I'll just forget why I came here in the first place, fall into your one-armed embrace, and make love to you right here and now, you shitty excuse for a human being?!" she fumed.

At every statement, the woman cringed more and more, as if she was drinking the vitriol that was spewing from the blonde's curled mouth. Riven shook her head vigorously, leaned out to laugh sardonically at the situation, then leaned back in. Katarina was doing all she could not to cry.

"Fiora de Laurent. _That_ is who I love, not _you_ ," she fumed. "She is ten times- no, one hundred time the woman you will ever be, do you hear me?!"

The redheads eyes closed, and her head rolled away to conceal the wet orbs trailing down her face.

"Look at me."

Katarina fought the exile's hand.

" ** _LOOK AT ME!_** " she shouted as loud she could.

Startled, the assassin complied, eyes large as saucers, mouth parted slightly.

"Look at me," she rasped, and brought the throwing knife into view, "when you die. Look at my eyes, notice the hatred broiling there, and know that not in this lifetime, or the next, or the next, or the next will I ever love you, Katarina. Look at my eyes as you die, and maybe, just _maybe_ , you'll begin to understand the pain and suffering you've caused me."

Katarina followed her orders as her own razor dug deep into the side of her neck. A dam burst somewhere in her ducts, and suddenly a steady surge of tears streamed down her cheeks. The woman's chest convulsed as she choked sobs, and Riven wasn't sure if they were from the gash or not. She hoped it was all of the above.

The razor moved, and as the second smile split her throat, the convulsions became greater. The sorrow in toxic eyes persisted, growing greater as the woman found it more difficult to breath. The progress was slow, and when the exile retracted the bloody blade, Katarina still cried.

The blonde leaned in to the woman's ear and whispered, " _Who's the weak one now?_ "

A very loud gurgle, and the redhead squirmed, but to no avail. The shuddering ebbed gradually, and still Katarina stared into emotionless eyes as red as the blood flowing from her devastated jugular. In the end, she failed to draw even a wink of anything out of her killer.

It was then, as the last of her life dribbled from her neck, as the only love she ever had watched her die without so much as a hug, that Katarina du Couteau was truly regretful of her actions.

ooooo

The body of the assassin was abandoned, like all the others, to rot and vanish beneath layers of soft snow. Those green eyes so full of vigor were so dull as they stared up at the heavens mournfully, salty tears frozen and dried to her cheeks, and though she smiled down low her real lips were pulled into agony. An elliptical rug of vermillion encircled her entire from, starkly contrasting the milky white. Her arm lay not far away, and it possessed its own, personal bubble of blood. Her entire, lifeless form radiated a certain misery, a despairing longing for what could have been.

But it was too late now.

Katarina didn't deserve a grave. Not after what she did to Kumiko, what she'd tricked the blonde into doing to Hana. Not after she planted seeds of fury and emptiness into the exile's heart and drew feelings from her that she hadn't felt for some time. The Noxian deserter gave no second glance, never even thought of looking over her shoulder as she strutted away.

She did, however, take the tags from the dead, the little skull icons jangling in her pouch as she waltzed through curtains of ivory that only seemed to intensify as time passed. The snow absorbed all sound, and as she trudged down the mountain, she thought. She thought and thought and thought until the sun rose behind cottony, unyielding clouds, and even though the orb was present it still looked like night. Still felt like it too.

ooooo

She found Haruto where she left him. Only this time, a dagger protruded from his abdomen, and he no longer breathed.

' _Self-inflicted_ ,' she concluded.

Riven wiped off the snow that had accumulated over his back. He still knelt hunched over, though his flesh was blue and he was stiff as a board. His expression, twisted with sadness and anguish, still hovered over Kumikos, and she gently removed the white blanket from her frozen face as well. Izumi was entirely buried, and if the blonde hadn't known she was there before her venture to the monastery, the blonde wouldn't know that the mother was there at all.

The exile had too much experience digging graves. That experience told her that the ground was much too solid this time of year to effectively dig a grave. However, the family lived by the sea, and that gave her an idea.

Riven carefully laid the bodies of Haruto, Izumi, and Kumiko into one of the only untouched canoes sculpted from tree trunks in the harbor. She covered them with blankets though they didn't need them anymore, all of the earthly possessions that weren't too badly damaged from what was left of their hut, and lathered the entire interior with oil. Before she set the creation alight, she carved the words, "HARUTO IZUMI KUMIKO" on the left, then inscribed, "MAY THEIR SPIRITS REST IN PEACE" using Ionian symbols for the dead.

Flint and steel ignited the tomb, and she pushed the burning boat from the shore with her booted foot. As the glowing canoe drifted out of sight and disappeared into the fog of descending snow, she sat at the edge of the dock, staring at the burial at sea and creating ripples in the water with her toes. When the time came that she could no longer see the flaming grave, she hauled herself to her feet, searched out her dingy, and began to row to the boat.

The schooner almost knocked into her, but she rounded about and soon the raft was ascending up the side of the ship.

The captain stood at the ready, a lantern hanging from one of his hands.

"Welcome back. Do we return to Mademoiselle?" he asked as she hoisted herself over the railing.

She didn't answer at first, opting to place a palm on the wooden bannister. She thought about what must have occurred in Haruto's mind to influence him into suicide. She thought to Hana, and how her village was razed by this despicable war. She thought to Yi's- the real Yi in her book- city, how the actions of one man brought death to an entire town. She wondered if maybe one woman could do the opposite? Be the cause of its salvation, rather than its destruction? She entertained the idea, mulling over the consequences and what it would take to perform such a feat.

"Master?" the captain repeated.

She didn't look to him, just realized something with a heavy sigh.

"I think my journey is just beginning."

ooooo

 **So what do you guys think of the twist (that Kat like-likes Riven)? I hope it wasn't too unbelievable. Please comment and tell me what you think!**


	25. Chapter 25- The Calm Before the Storm

**I apologize for the inconvenience, but from now on it's gonna be a chapter every two weeks instead of every week. I'm kind of at a deadlock with Riven at the moment. I'm not sure the character I created would realistically do what I intended her to do to finish out the story, but I really liked my plans. This chapter, and other future chapters, are gonna be pretty difficult to write, so bear with me! If needed, I'll rewrite, edit, or do whatever I need to do to make the story make sense. Anyways, here's Wonderwall.**

 **3 Weeks Ago**

Feet clopped against frozen steps, footfalls abnormally heavy and somber as white flakes stained the rawhide cloak of the lone woman traversing the mountain once more. The hooded head lowered to shield the face from the unforgiving, icy winds that pummeled her with stinging, mist of glassy shards, and also because the woman couldn't summon the energy to hoist her head and stare into the white. Her body was cold, but she didn't notice. Her fingers that futilely clutched at the cloak that flapped behind her, trying to escape from the monster it protected, were actually blue, and she was certain if they wrapped any tighter they would shatter into a million pieces and ride the current down the mountain. Her mouth permanently pulled itself into a pained, focused sneer, and slivers of crimson peeked from between squinted eyelids. Technically, it was day, but the clouds and the blizzard of snow encased everything and lent the appearance of night to the environment.

Riven needed to ensure Lee Sin still lived, and if that remained so, she needed guidance. She knew what she needed to do, but she didn't want to do it. She also didn't want to trek back up the mountain, but she didn't possess the patience to wait out the storm. The journey would take all day, and her progress continued to be hindered by this storm, it might also consume part of the next night as well. But Riven endured, and when her mind wandered to the sight of a comparatively smaller, scrunched face, remembered the sensation of her fingers parting through silky, raven tresses, and imagined the satisfied hum Riven would receive whenever she wrapped her powerful arms around her, her muscles would gain the strength of a thousand Rivens and she would march forward up this freezing Hell if only so that she could embrace Fiora sooner.

A long time passed, a time where her footprints would disappear minutes after, a time where her gut audibly ached for subsidence, and a time where the only sound was that of the wind whipping and battering and slashing at her without mercy. However, time is limited, and eventually she rounded the crest to witness the comforting twinkling of lights in the monastery. The valley that skulked between them, though, looked much less pleasant. A churning, surging, sea of thick, white snow twirled in a miniature hurricane that stood no taller than the rim of the dip. The valley appeared as would a bowl of broth that was endlessly stirred with a spoon, but here in this swirling mass of cotton and snowy malevolence the giant utensil was invisible. And there was some colossal utensil; Riven could sense the malicious intent, and noticed how this could not possibly be a natural phenomenon. It was instead spawned and constantly maintained through otherworldly means, and Riven assumed it was a defensive countermeasure by the inhabitants of the monastery. Unfortunately, Riven could see no way but straight through: bowl around was too steep to traverse and a tumble would impale her on the gnarly branches and sharp boulders below. She rolled her shoulders, expelled a short, quick breath, then descended.

The force of the wind felt like she'd stepped into an endless barrage of icy explosions, and she was almost knocked over instantly. However, the wind was her ally, not theirs, and as she struggled, a bubble of not-quite-as-harsh surrounded her being. It couldn't shield her from the cold though. It was so, so cold, it was so cold that the agony transferred straight through numbness and into a tormenting freezing that touched her soul. Her skin was ever so slowly being grafted from her body, and red, raw rashes appeared all over her exposed appendages. The wind was deafening, a faint ringing growing louder and more persistent as, step by step, she clambered through snow just higher than her kneecaps. Her thighs burned from exertion, the tears streaming down her cheeks freezing painfully solid. She could barely breathe; every time she opened her mouth the hurricane entered her and froze her tongue, her throat, her heart, her everything. She didn't know how much distance she'd crossed before she collapsed to her knees, hunching over as frozen air slipped beneath her shirt and ravaged her flesh with snow that felt like sandpaper.

She couldn't move, couldn't even shiver as her arms protected her torso to save what warmth she had left. Her joints had locked up, and her breathing slowed as her vison faded into black. She was dying. She would die here in this valley of boiling ice, would shut her eyes for the last time as she transformed into a human ice sculpture. Her journey would end here, anticlimactic and disappointing, but most of all frustrating. She would die here.

And that pissed Riven off.

She'd merely come to discuss something with an old friend, and she would die because of it. She would never help end the war that placed her in this position. She would never see Fiora again, but what really infuriated her was that Fiora would never see her again. Riven had broken her heart through the simple act of leaving, and if she refused to return, Riven was frightened like never before for Fiora's reaction to her only lover's death. She'd already broken one promise, and though Fiora had brushed off her second she refused to break that one too, nevertheless.

' _This is not where I die._ '

Suddenly, she could move again. Her body trembled, her heartbeat thudded faster and faster as adrenaline seethed through all her limbs, through her heart, through her brain. She stood, and as her bloody legs offered her bloody arms, her bloody face, and her bloody torso to the elements, a blinding, emerald green expanded across her body and safeguarded her from all harm. Her eyes wide open, her flesh crawling to close the wounds inflicted by the razor flakes of ice, her foot lifted, parted blankets of snow as it ascended, then stomped forward. Then the other did the same. Then the other. Then the other. With this strength, Riven knew she could cross a valley ten times the length and intensity of this one, and though her progress was slow the pace was constant and unwavering.

After a while, with the shield still glowing bright and green and strong, a blue orb of luminescence bounced toward her dead ahead. She continued her path as the orb traveled closer, and a blurry silhouette revealed itself behind the frosty curtains. Whoever it was adorned a shield as she did, and as they neared, Riven noticed the figure was large and tall. They neared still as the air tried to burn through her will in vain, and she recognized him only when he was inside of five feet.

Lee Sin stood before her, bandaged forearm blocking the snow, braid and loose ribbons of scarlet billowing and violently dancing around him. Even through the snow she could see he'd aged. His arms were bulkier, his shoulders seemed wider, his thighs thicker, his muscles more dense. Seven years had passed since they'd last met, but both still sported the same getup, the same, seemingly inadequate weapons: bare-knuckled fists and a broken cleaver.

Neither spoke as they closed the gap, nor when Sin wordlessly extended a hand for her to grasp. She graciously accepted the offer, and the exact moment their hands touched the transparent cerulean barrier instantly infected her own. Riven had only ever attempted such an action a few times before, but as she willed her own valor to protect her one-time savior they were both screened by a turquoise might that effectively safeguarded both from the blizzard. Once their connection was sturdy enough, Sin turned away and they both grappled with the overpowered nature toward shelter.

Little sparks of light glimmered ahead through the shroud as the storm ricocheted from their hardened skins, and a mammoth wall- no, gate- approached them through the frozen fog. They never halted until they'd arrived at the dark, wooden doors, and Sin released his grip to bang against the bulwark. He said nothing, as all breath would be wasted as it was carried away by the storm. No one answered.

Sin looked mildly confused as Riven steeped beside him, lifted his arm around her neck she held him tightly to her side, and commanded, " _HOLD ON!_ "

He didn't understand at first, but as she looked upward and reigned in a few, rebellious currents of air that refused to assault one of their own, and as the knee-high snow rumbled beneath them, he could place a solid guess. Moments later, an immense gust of wind that appeared to originate from Runeterra itself blasted them, or rather Riven who carried the impressed monk in tow, up, up, up and over the walls of the monastery.

The wind ceased, the cold became less intense, and the snow stopped all efforts to eviscerate them the instant they crossed the threshold. They separated just before gravity reclaimed them so they wouldn't crash into a pile of limbs at the bottom, and both fighters landed light on their feet. Riven straightened, exhaled harshly, and turned toward her old friend who appeared just as exhausted as she did.

A breathless, "Thanks."

A panting nod in response.

Riven's gaze examined everything in sight, and was content to find that almost nothing had changed. There were still banners of Ionian insignias that seemed unaffected save for a cool, gentle breeze. The houses of papyrus and red, wooden beams still constricted and curved into designs that reminded Riven of the rolling ocean waves. There was still a charming cobbled path, and the robust, stalwart walls that surrounded every building still protected all from invaders, real and snowy alike. The wells still scattered here and there, with their miniature rooves of slick, black tile and their pails swaying affably in the breeze, and the paper lanterns that dangled from twine that bridged between households still glowed merrily. The one difference Riven perceived was the multitudinous presence of monks. They thronged the area, some shirtless and flaunting built torsos, some strapped with slabs of leather and paper. Some grasped weapons, spears with a sparkling crescent blade on each point, katanas on whose silver edge oily light pooled, and plain staffs with lacquered surfaces cut and dented from countless hours of practice, while many- Riven would dare say the majority- wielded only their fists.

"Where are the villagers?" she queried with an anxious frown, aware of their absence.

"They are farther up, seeking protection in the main temple." His memorable Ionian accent bathed every syllable of every word. Oddly, she'd missed that lilt of his.

"I see."

The monks shifted uneasily. One of them spoke up, voice higher in pitch but not annoying; rather, it was wise, just nervous. "What has happened to the invaders?"

Riven looked at him, expression curious. "Do you not have anyone watching the perimeter?"

"Several." It was Sin who spoke this time, and she twisted her head to listen to the rest. "However, everyone assigned to patrol met their end almost immediately."

Riven recalled the archers, but also remembered that while they were good, they didn't physically possess the ability to shoot something this far up. "How is that?"

His ribbon-wound gauntlet raised instantly as if he'd foreseen the question and prepared beforehand, the blade to a throwing dagger sandwiched between his index and middle fingers. "One of these to the throat or spinal cord."

He casually tossed the object to her, and she skillfully caught the weapon in the same grip he'd used to display it. She didn't require an examination, seeing as she knew to whom it belonged to, but she still twirled the thing through her fingers, blade dodging and weaving between all digits.

"You don't have to worry about her anymore," though she didn't elaborate on who "her" was. Then, to everyone, "You don't have to worry about any of them anymore."

Tense shoulders dropped for some, while others appeared skeptical.

It was a different man who asked, this time, smaller but his heavy voice compensated for his stature. "How can we be sure?"

"What reason do I have to lie to you?" These people knew her, were her family once upon a time, and the fact that they didn't believe her irritated her greatly. "Besides, if I didn't finish them off, the storm surely would've."

"They are gone," Sin confirmed, and his word quelled all discomfort nesting in the crowd of fighters.

A different man again. "Then can we return to our homes?"

Sin looked to Riven for advice, a clear indication of trust that boosted Riven's confidence. She shook her head. "No. Not yet, at least. Noxus is not a foe that gives up easily. In fact," she realized with inward dismay outwardly disguised as amusement, "I think I've unwittingly proved how dangerous you all are."

The Crimson Elite, Noxus's most advanced fighting force, had been sent to wipe out yet another pesky martial art because of how effective the style was in combat. When none would return to report back, their absence would confirm just how large of a threat the monastery was. Riven shuddered as the image of the temple melting under green hijacked her thoughts.

They appeared confused at this, but Sin understood. She expected anger, but instead he reasoned, "The same result would be achieved if we ourselves were to repel the attack." he leaned in so only Riven could hear him whisper, "And I am not sure of the feasibility of us repelling the attack."

The blind monk's volume increased so everyone could listen. "Return to your posts. A follow-up attack is likely, so I do not need to remind you to stay vigilant." Then to her, "Come. The rumbling of your stomach is audible from here."

 **ooooo**

The kitchen, a cozy little area with tin pots and steel pans and firewood stoves, always smelled wonderful, and that hadn't changed over the years. As Riven sloppily slurped the savory noodles and speared the chunks of tofu that swam in broth as unforgettable now as it was then, she enjoyed the warmth the room radiated- even from the dining room where she chowed down- and the bustle and clamor of cooks chopping and dicing and stirring and tasting. Lee Sin lounged across the short table on a pillow identical to her own, and though he also sucked down soup his movements were tactful and measured.

Not satisfied with just one bowl, she caught the attention of a young woman just learning the art of preparing food and graciously requested seconds. During her time at the monastery all those years ago, she was once hesitant to ask for seconds, but then she'd witnessed a woman larger than her loudly, but very politely, order three servings and since then all doubt had disappeared.

When she finished the second bowl, her eyes looked upward to see that Sin was "staring" at her. She wiped broth from her mouth with a napkin provided, and straightened her posture.

"Do you need something?" she queried when his gaze never flinched.

His head coked off-center ever so slightly. "You are different."

That comment struck her profoundly. She supposed she was very different now from the girl she was seven years ago. She could guess what had changed, but she needed another source. "How so?"

He ruminated for a moment. "You are stronger, faster. You are much, much calmer, and yet you are not. You are also the most troubled person I have seen."

His diagnosis puzzled her. "What do you mean?"

"You are calm, cool, and totally collected. Much more so than when we last traded words. You move with so much grace and fluidity, and your manners have been extraordinarily caring and considerate thus far. And yet, something troubles you greatly."

That made sense. She nodded slowly.

"This trouble, it is a compound of several different issues, is it not?" he continued.

Another nod; she was used to his near-telepathic ability to dig to the root of a matter.

"You know you can tell me these things, do you not?"

"I know."

Silence while Riven collected her words, her fingers interlaced and propping up her chin.

"I seeked out Master Yi as you advised."

An acknowledging, "Hmm."

"He trained me, taught me everything he knew. He helped sort out what was in my head."

"I can tell through your tone that you respected him deeply," he deduced.

A sigh. "Yes. Very much so."

A brief pause. "I know of his passing."

She nodded. That was no surprise. "I mourned deeply for him."

Sin's tone turned suspicious and aware of the truth as he explained, "I am not entirely certain that Master Yi is quite dead."

"And how's that?" She could offer her title now, but she was curious as to how much Sin was aware of.

"The odd rumor here and there from a passing trader indicates otherwise. Why, the valiant Master Yi's tales are known across the continent by now! Surely you have heard something of a most accomplished individual?" he taunted. Before she could reply, he resumed, "You know, something has always troubled me about these tales."

"Oh? And what would that be?" she entertained his playful banter.

"The Master Yi I know is a man with seven glowing eyes. The Master Yi everyone else knows is a woman with white hair dressed in tatters of an indistinguishable set of armor."

"What if I told you they were both Master Yi?" she questioned.

"I would need to see such a thing to believe it."

She chuckled. "Then you better believe it."

Sin chortled, his lips pulling into a satisfied grin at the implication. They both tittered over the exchange, but the mod turned decidedly somber.

"Yes, I know of Ichirou's passing," he admitted.

Riven only inhaled, then exhaled, loudly.

"I also know that was four years ago, and that since then you have performed a great amount of feats that could not occur within the mind of a person as conflicted as you are now." His arms slithered from below to rest on the table as he asked, "What ails you?"

She paused, but only for a second. She could trust Lee Sin with her life, she realized.

"I've found someone."

"I am happy for you." He was genuinely pleased for her. "But I fail to see how this alone could cause you so much inner turmoil?"

"I've also found my purpose."

He was silent, assuming she would fill in the gaps.

"They don't agree with each other."

"Ahhhh," he expressed his realization. "Yes, that can be very troublesome."

"Very," she almost whispered.

More silence, and Riven studied the curvatures of her fingers, noticing the ridges and imperfections. The din of the kitchen died off a while ago, and now the only souds were of the howling storm outside.

Sin spoke first. "What are they, and why do they not agree?"

Riven analyzed her fingers again, summoning a description that could help him comprehend the gravity of her situation.

"I came here to help someone, and my… lover can't come along," she struggled.

"You must love this person very much if your soul is this conflicted," he commented.

"I do." ' _Very, very much_.' "But I promised her I'd never leave her alone." She ruffled her platinum hair in frustration, "You wouldn't understand, she… She needs someone with her. She needs _me_ , but I can't be in two places at once."

"You are right. I do not fully understand the pain you feel," He admitted. The jewel over his bandaged eyes glimmered for a split second as he asked, "But have you not completed your objective? I believe you are eligible to return home. Why do you not?"

"Well, technically, I failed, but that doesn't really matter in the context," she grumbled, but it wasn't directed at Sin. Her fingers massaged her eye sockets. "Because, Sin, I'm afraid that my objective hasn't been completed."

"Haruto's death was not your fault. No one's death was your fault," he comforted.

"No. it wasn't." Riven hated the truth, but she needed to express it audibly to ensure she wasn't insane. "But what about everyone else who will die in the next week? If I just leave, they're doomed."

Sin began to fathom what his one-time apprentice spoke of. "You cannot save them all, Riven."

"I know," she whispered, her head lowering to rest in her crossed arms lazing on the table. "But I can try."

"Yes, you can try. But are you sure you can perform?" he confirmed.

"I don't know." What she spoke of was nothing short of ending a war. "I'm not sure if it's even worth the effort."

"If you die, you will leave this lover of yours alone, will you not?" His questions weren't subversive in the slightest, just ensuring his old pupil stood firm in her beliefs. Riven appreciated the gesture.

"Yes."

"That is why you are troubled, correct?"

"Yes." She cracked her neck and mulled everything over. Her eyes met a lone jewel. "I love her so much, Sin. I can't leave her alone, but I can't give up on the people here. They've been in the shit for twelve years, and I was part of that." Her gaze drooped to her empty bowls, the remains of noodles sloshing at the bottom. "I can't abandon them, Sin."

Silence. The wind screeched outside the dividers, but the candles' flames still gallantly survived, wax dripping in small rivers to the wooden floorboards.

"But I can't leave her alone," she repeated. "I don't know how long it will take, maybe weeks? Months?" She despairingly added, "Years? I don't know. But I know I won't be able to go back to her until I finish this. _If_ I come back at all."

Sin's face twisted into confusion. "I understand that time away from our loved ones causes distress. I understand your drive and your inability to abandon those in need. What I do not understand is why you think you won't return?"

Her brow quirked. "It's war, Sin. Everyone can die. Heroes too. Especially heroes. And what I want, _need_ to do requires me to run straight into the thick of it."

"Yes, but you seem so sure of your own demise."

"Because there's a good chance I won't make it. It's war, didn't you hear?"

"If you are sure you will fail, how will you succeed?"

She absorbed his rhetoric gradually. He posed a very wise point; after all, half the battle of anything was jumping the mental hurdles. The possibility of death was high, but there was too much to do to dwell on her demise. She couldn't feasibly accomplish anything of the caliber she planned to take on if she thought of anything else but her targets. And logically, she couldn't achieve anything if she was dead, so death wasn't a practical route through which to do anything. After all, hadn't she decided long ago that moping only hindered progress? She chalked up her recent mistake to emotional stress, and with rock-hard conviction she decided that she simply couldn't afford to die.

"I suppose you're right."

More silence. There was no movement in the immediate vicinity, and the quiet reverberated through the halls and corridors, toting with it the sweet scent of incense and cold air. All was tranquil.

"Something still troubles you," the blind monk concluded.

Her attention returned to the present. "…Yes."

He remained wordless, and accepting.

Breath snorted through her nostrils as she exhaled. "If I succeed, a lot of people are going to die."

"But more will die if you do not act."

"I know, I know." Riven sighed heavily. "I still don't like it."

"It is because they are Noxian, is it not? You feel a natural kinship, and you hurt when they hurt?"

"Yes." She despised her outlook on the matter. The people that needed to die did not plague her; they were evil at heart, wicked and wholly corrupt. They'd defiled Noxus and polluted the nation with their greed and nefarious self-interests. Negotiation with these fiends was completely out of the question. It was the common soldier she feared for, the cannon fodder that she would doubtless need to slay to reach her targets. Their principles were unethical as well, but they did not become that way by choice. Monsters make monsters, and the pacifist that guided her every move knew that with time, their souls could be salvaged and guided onto the righteous path. But time was limited, and she couldn't spare the months upon years their transformation would require, so she would be forced to raise her blade against a foe that needn't be her foe.

"I don't know what I can do to avoid killing anyone. They'll see me as a traitor, and I can't fight them all with my fists."

Sin appeared amused. "You tell me it is war, yet you yourself don't fully comprehend what this means. People will die, Riven. That is life, and that is war. Your task is too great to worry about a matter as simple as the lives of a few."

"You know, my drill instructor said the same thing," she countered.

"And your drill instructor was a wise man. Do not look at me like that, you know it is true. War is a game of numbers, Riven, as cold as it sounds. There is no right or wrong, there is only the east and the west. You know that now, you just wish it not be so."

"…"

He realized the message wasn't exactly interpreted. "I am not dismissing your concern. It is very well placed: killing is a last resort for only those who are unreachable." His arms spread wide here. "But we have arrived at the last resort, Riven. For twelve long years, too many have lost their lives. Both sides are weary of fighting, but neither will concede. Every option has been explored, every negotiation attempted, and still nothing has worked. And good men, women, and children have died because of it. Our backs press firmly against the wall. We are at our final stand."

Riven stared at the bowl again, absentmindedly pinching the chopsticks and prodding the leftover pieces. He was right. She knew this from the very beginning, but she'd been too cowardly to admit the facts. Ionia tottered on the brink of total annihilation. This was the last opportunity to absolve herself truly.

"…Okay."

He nodded, then effortlessly ascended to his feet. "You will need sleep and supplies, I presume?"

Riven didn't react instantly, but eventually responded, "Yes."

"I can give you plenty of both."

She hoisted herself, exhausted physically and dreading what she must do to save her country. "Thank you."

 **ooooo**

Her room was sparse and small, but adequate a for a single night's quiet doze. A cot inscribed with pink blossoms slumbered in a corner, thick candles melting by the pillow and flickered their pinprick of white light onto the colorless walls. A dresser crafted from segmented bamboo held nothing but her weapon and a variety of holy tomes in case the traveler forgot their own book of worship somewhere else. A desk hovered a mere couple feet from the groaning wooden floorboards, and upon was the proper stationary: a pen, an inkwell, envelopes, stamps, and sealing wax.

Riven gripped the quill with the colorful peacock feathers between her tired fingers and dipped the tip into the little metal capsule containing black dye. The pin scratched against the rough surface of the letter she wrote upon, careful strokes stranding twirling lines of damp ink in its wake. She chose her words very meticulously, sparing no effort as she constructed her message in conveying her despair and regret as intimately as possible. A long while later, and she signed her name, "With so much love, Your Riven."

The quill was deposited into the well, and she analyzed her work with a watchful, critical eye. Not content with her work but simultaneously aware that no amount of editing could totally explain her thoughts, she encased the letter in an envelope and dripped hot wax onto the tab. She addressed the item, then lay the parcel on the desk: she would mail it in the morning.

The comforter was thick, and provided plenty of warmth as she extinguished the candle's flames with a quick breath. Sleeping without a warm body to snuggle into still felt odd to Riven, though she'd lived almost her entire life without one. The bed felt cold, though the interior of the temple was plenty warm, and Riven obsessed over ow long it would stay that way.

Riven realized what was necessary to complete her objective. She knew she would return with the blood of many on her hands, and though that was not a new experience, she still loathed it all the more. Most of all, she worried what Fiora would think of her when she waltzed down the gangplank and reunited with her love. She would be angry and distrustful. Loud, vicious arguments would occur. Fiora might become so appalled at Riven's actions that she would leave her for good.

No, that was highly unlikely. Fiora loved her too much to simply abandon her. But the unreasonable, frightened portion of Riven convinced her saner self that there was still a possibility.

After an agonizingly lengthy session of lazing in the limbo between unconsciousness and consciousness, her eyelids drifted shut. Her thudding heart decrescendoed, and her breathing calmed until her chest's contractions were even and measured. Her body stilled completely, and her mind was wiped of all thoughts save for one image. Behind the darkness of her eyelids, the sharp cheekbones, the rosy lips, the pale, immaculate flesh, the inky, shimmering locks, and those irises of warm, comforting ice lulled Riven into a deep, deep sleep.


	26. Christmas Special

**Hey guys! Sorry for the long wait, I've hit a roadblock in the creative process but I think I've circumnavigated the issue. This chapter takes place right before Riven leaves, and is not critical to the story. Also a little note: the reason why there wasn't much buildup to their relationship was because I hadn't initially planned on their love having such a big impact on the story. It was intended to be something short so that the hero could have a romantic interest to see if I could do something like that, but as I wrote their interactions I found myself loving them as a couple. Anyways, I just wanted to write some Riven/Fiora Christmas fluff/smut as my gift to you guys, so without further ado, enjoy! Merry Christmas everyone!**

As Riven's eyelids gradually retracted to allow eyes bleary with sleep to peer out, she inhaled a sweet, calming scent that brought a happy smile to her lips. Her back deeply burrowed into Riven's breasts, Fiora dozed as Riven's muscular arms wrapped around her angel and pulled her in tightly. The heavy satin covers up to their shoulders cocooned them in warmth, and everywhere the couple touched, heat pooled there and mixed, the temperature beneath the blankets only serving to exacerbate the marvelous toastiness. Riven buried her nose and mouth further into silky, inky waves of cool tresses, her breath stirring strands as her lips pressed firmly against Fiora's scalp. Fiora slept so soundly and peacefully, the rising and falling of her bosom and her delicious body heat being the only movements she made, that Riven couldn't help but appreciate everything about her in these tranquil moments. The fact that Riven could touch her wherever she yearned to, kiss her tender flesh whenever she wanted to, and love her unconditionally with total, unrestricted consent from her lover had instilled permanent fluttering butterflies in her stomach and her chest. Everything was perfect in moments like these, and thankfully moments like these came very often. With the only sound the steady inhale and exhale of Fiora, the only scent that of Fiora's hair, and the only touch she felt was the mind-numbing sensation of skin against skin, Riven floated in Heaven.

Except her breath. That wasn't very heavenly. To put it blatantly, her tongue and her breath tasted like shit. Fiora was open to almost everything, and Riven was all too happy to introduce her to new and exciting things, despite what her morning breath would greet her with when she awoke. Not that anal was anything new to the couple, but Riven had discovered that a special technique with her tongue applied to a certain area sent her lover spiraling into a beautiful, blubbering, lovey-dovey mess. As long as it got Fiora moaning like a porn star in heat, Riven would do whatever it took to please her. With satisfaction, Riven realized that Fiora would do the same.

Deciding that she preferred that Fiora's first experience of the morning should not be that of her own asshole, Riven stretched and reached over carefully to snag a breath mint from a conveniently placed bowl on the nightstand. She popped the candy in her mouth and slithered her arm back around Fiora's tummy, snuggling even closer than they had before. Riven studied what she could see of her lover with admiration, the mint swirling and dipping into every nook and cranny of her mouth. The shimmering tresses that she so often combed a gentle, splayed hand through. The pale expanse of delectable flesh pocked only and proudly by purple hickeys that Riven knew Fiora would absentmindedly run a finger over fondly when she was in the mood. The rest of her body that was visible that Riven would worship with undivided attention when in the throes of passion.

Her eyes closed, Riven's thumb snaked up and gently trailed over Fiora's distinct collarbone she loved to suck on, swishing back and forth, while her palm from the arm Fiora lay on rubbed her side slowly, lovingly. Eventually, Riven's rugged hand rested on her lover's heart, counting the rhythmic, relaxing thumps.

She was in the thousands, nearly lulled to sleep by the sublime sensation, when Fiora began to stir. Riven grinned again, placing a kiss deep into her hair.

"Good morning, angel," Riven crooned. Fiora nestled in closer, pulling Riven's arms in for an even tighter embrace, her legs closing more firmly around Riven's as if to keep her from leaving.

Riven could hear the smile in her wonderful voice, "Good morning, mon amor." Fiora twisted her upper body just enough, her arm reaching up and over and back. Riven elevated herself so that she could gaze into Fiora's eyes and witness the euphoric grin herself, "Merry Christmas."

Their smiling lips meshed, their eyes closing as their tongues slithered out, giving them both a taste of what was to come. When they parted, Fiora giggled lightheadedly, eyes half-lidded, and Riven noticed that Fiora's heartbeat

"I see you have used ze mints," Fiora teased.

"For you, angel. Figured you might not want to taste your own anus the first thing after you woke up," Riven explained.

A flash of sultriness, Fiora grinding her ass into Riven's crotch so lightly Riven wondered if it actually happened, as she cooed, "Maybe I zink it a sexy reminder of your blasphemous, _~wonderful~_ deeds last night?"

Fiora ground against her again just as Riven was about to speak, cutting her off with a devilish twinkle in her blue eyes and a lip bite that unleashed the flood gates between her legs. Fiora used her beauty and her cleverness against Riven in all the right ways, and Riven _loved_ her for it.

Riven leaned in as if to kiss her, but halted just before contact could be established. She whispered, a mix of sexy and growling, " _~I'm about three seconds away from trying more of those blasphemous, wonderful deeds on you, darling angel.~_ "

The hand that rested on Fiora's heart casually lowered until it cupped a breast, and her other hand inched toward Fiora's center. Breathing heavily, Fiora pleaded, "N-no, please! Wait!"

Riven halted, concerned.

A hand, small and gentle, caressed the side of Riven's face, and she leaned in to it. Fingers intertwined the hand nearest the core, and Fiora explained, "I do not wish to be tuckered out when ze day's many 'festivities' begin." Riven appeared disappointed but understanding, and with a kind smile Fiora eagerly reassured her, "Zat will come later, mon chérie. You will, too."

Riven barely caught the last bit, and a mischievous grin spread across both faces simultaneously. "Not before you do."

They kissed again, Fiora twisting around fully so Riven clamber over her for a proper hug. Hands roamed freely, happy sighs and laughter escaping from their lips. The kissing slowly ground to a halt, and soon they were hugging each other close and nuzzling each other's ears affectionately, content with simply sharing their body heat and relaxing before the day would begin.

"Merry Christmas," Riven mumbled into the crook of Fiora's neck.

"Merry Christmas," Fiora responded, her cheek pressed against her lovers temple.

A stomach grumbled, or maybe both. They tittered.

"Breakfast before presents?" Fiora queried.

"I imagine we'll want to try some of my presents when we open them, and I'd rather gather the energy to fully _enjoy_ our time together," Riven mumbled, pressing her lips to Fiora's neck and eliciting an excited sigh.

"Zen we shall have breakfast before presents."

Fiora's legs instinctively wrapped around Riven's waist as Riven hoisted her from the mattress, both grinning uncontrollably. Where Fiora's crotch connected with Riven's abdomen, hot, sticky wetness coated her skin. Riven was just as exhilarated for future events, a few surprises laying in store for her lover that she could hardly wait to try out. And by the mix of adoration and devilry lurking in icy blue eyes, it seemed that Fiora was thinking the same.

 **ooooo**

Down every hall of the Laurent Estate, strands of twinkling, multicolored lights tangled with reflective green and red garland dangled from hooks set equidistant from one another. Most suits of armor adorned a new addition: a red stocking cap with a fuzzy, white ball topping the hat. The entire house smelled of gingerbread, as the kitchen was constantly pumping out sheets upon sheets of little gingerbread men and women and hot chocolate for the staff to enjoy for the holidays. Fiora had dismissed nearly all of her servants for a week prior to and after Christmas Day, but a few of the loyal ones with nothing better to do had stuck around and now sporadically patrolled the corridors with cookies in hand. Wreaths hovered at every door, and various other decorations hung from the walls; some were homely, painted wooden signs inscribed with silly lettering wishing a Merry Christmas, some were seasonal quilts, and some were handmade arts and craft. None of this compared to the tree, however. Nearly scraping the ceiling, the colossal behemoth loomed tall, woven with countless lengths of yellow lights and gold and silver garland. Every ornament was of either the richest, most expensive gold or of the most lustrous, most opulent silver, the tree topper being a hilariously over-complicated six-point star comprised of smaller six-point stars, and because of the expensive choice of material, the whole spectacle sparkled and exuded an aura of haughty superiority. Mister de Laurent had always insisted that their tree compete with every other on the block, and thus had hired the most masterful decorators of the land, and this year had been no different. Fiora hated the thing. It was so impersonal and flashy, and she hated to think she would spend the first Christmas under its blinding shadow.

That was why the real tree resided in their room. Much, much smaller but much, much closer to their hearts than the massive monstrosity in the foyer, the delightful decoration stood in the corner of the room. This tree was not nearly as coordinated in appearance, but that was all part of the charm. Crowning the tree was a custom piece; two swords, a slimmer, more elegant rapier and a wider, cruder saber, were locked at the foil to symbolize how it all began. Cords of lights strung through the prickly pine branches, their many different hues twinkling at uneven intervals or holding a solid glow to add an element of movement to it all, and the needles were a deep emerald from studious care. The ornaments were of a wide range of sizes and shapes, as their presence was not dictated by how well they match the others but by how well they caught the couple's eyes as they shopped for them at the beginning of the season. Beneath the best tree Fiora had ever created, presents wrapped in festive paper and bows piled in clumps, waiting to be torn free with enthusiastic hands.

Fiora hadn't believed her lover at first when Riven had informed her that she'd never received a Christmas present, and shortly after she'd decided to compensate for all of the lost years. Thus, most of the gifts beneath the tree were for Riven. Some were sexy surprises that made Fiora thankful that they would open them in the bedroom, but most were things she'd thought Riven needed or overheard her expressing a longing for. Which wasn't much, but Fiora had made due.

The time had almost arrived to open their presents. Their breakfast had consisted of them playing the most maddening game of footsies and exchanging euphemisms for what they'd do to each other later between a meal of syrup-slathered French toast, cinnamon pecan muffins, hot chocolate, eggs sunny side up, and bacon. Normally, their meals required an hour and half or more to finish with so many different entrees and appetizers, but they'd blazed through this one; neither were very patient at that time or wished to be very full.

And now they were in their room, preparing to unwrap their gifts. They'd taken a very thorough shower where each had teased and taunted each other into oblivion, so much so that Fiora considered rubbing one out so that she wouldn't bust in ten seconds when the _real_ action started. However, Fiora was an individual of iron will, and so she'd decided she relished the challenge.

She stood in front of the mirror with their bathroom door closed, readying Riven's first "present". Red, open-toed stilettoes supported her heels and propped up her ass cradled by a cute pair of panties of the same hue with a fuzzy string of cotton encircling around the waistband. Higher up, a red, shoulder-strapless brassiere topped with the same fuzzy cotton string supported her considerable bosom, showing plenty of cleavage. She wore a Santa stocking cap, her hair loosely cascading around her head, and she was currently applying heavy layers of cherry red lipstick so that her kisses left a mark.

She pouted, licked her lips lightly, winked with a smile, and generally embarrassed herself in front of the mirror to ensure she looked sexy, then opened the door and exited the room.

As always, the way Riven looked at her influenced a giddy shyness and also a huge boost to her confidence. She chose the latter, and with hands on her thighs, arms pressed against her sides, she sauntered over to where Riven kneeled sitting on her feet.

Her lover's eyes wide open, an impressed smile beginning to creep at the edges of her mouth, she mumbled, "Damn, angel, if I'd have known you were going to dress up, I would've-."

Fiora placed a single finger on her lips as she slowly lowered herself into Riven's lap who took her with eager hands. "Shhh," she whispered before she pressed herself closely into her lover, their contours meshing perfectly as she claimed her lips in a sloppy, passionate kiss. Her palms both caressed Riven's cheeks while Riven's skirted up and down and everywhere in between, and Fiora began grinding and rocking. " _~Zis is my first gift to you, mon amour le plus précieux.~_ "

Fiora broke away just for a second, but their foreheads remained connected. Shyly, she explained, "Not zat it hasn't always been this way, but I would razer make it official." She took Riven's confused hand and, holding it with both of hers, pressed Riven's palm to her cheek and nuzzled into it. "I am all yours. _All_ of me. You can… You can use me as you wish. I trust you, mon amour."

Riven sucked in a breath, and the smile she received sent her spirits skyrocketing. "Thank you. And I'm all yours too." They kissed again, just as intense as the last one but with much more emphasis on affection than lust. When their smooching ceased and they just sat their holding one another close, Riven murmured into Fiora's ear, "Did I tell you this morning that I love you?"

Fiora, lost in the rosy smell of her platinum-blonde locks, mumbled, "I do not recall it. I zink it is assumed now, no?"

"I love you, Fiora," Riven whispered anyway, hands capable of great destruction so soft and gentle as she cradled her lover.

Fiora blushed, as she did every time Riven whispered those three words. "I love you too, mon Riven. Zank you for sharing zis moment wiz me; Christmas has been so lonely for so long."

"But now you have me." Riven held her tighter, her breath whispering against Fiora's flesh.

"But now I have you," she repeated fondly, her heart swelling as the words sunk in.

They sat there, bare skin against skin, heartbeat against heartbeat, for a long while until Fiora remembered that they had presents to unwrap. With a final, longing kiss, they separated, but put only enough space between them to allow unwrapping.

"Ze time for presents is now, mon Riven."

 **ooooo**

There were a _lot_ more presents for Riven than there were for Fiora. Fiora must have interpreted the embarrassed expression correctly, because as they gazed over their disproportionate pile of gifts, Fiora placed a hand over hers. "Do not fret. Quantity does not matter in such cases; I know they come from you so I am content."

They took turns unwrapping gifts, Riven opening two or three before Fiora opened a single present. Every item was so thoroughly thought out, so much care being put into each thing small or large. One of the first to emerge from crumpled paper was one of those touristy "I HEART DEMACIA" t-shirts, and they both had a good laugh at Riven's reaction. Another was a sturdy pair of high quality combat boots.

"I am tired of seeing you tromp about in ze snow wiz zose silly sandals! One of zese days, you are going to catch frostbite, mon amour."

Another was a handheld gaming device with an assortment of game cartridges, the one Riven had been eying for some time now but had refused to buy because she preferred not to lose hours of her life as she knew she would. However, judging from the mischievous look Fiora was shooting her, Fiora had disregarded her instructions. There were hardcover, special edition books and comfortable, fashionable clothing. There were items of much utility, and then there were gag gifts where both would laugh loudly at their absurdity. They were all unique, with a variety of uses and sizes and specializations, but they held one thing in common: so much love and effort was poured into each, individual gift, and every time she glanced up at Fiora for an explanation she saw endless adoration in her eyes. It was all too much; Riven wanted to cry.

But the biggest surprise came just before the segment they were looking forward to.

A small, thin package, Riven had ripped the paper off to reveal an orange envelope. She glanced with puzzlement over to Fiora who sat excitedly next her, their skin pressed firmly together as Fiora leaned over to properly spy it. She simply replied impatiently, "Well go on! Turn it over and open it!"

Riven turned the envelope over as requested. In large, block letters, the words "Demacian Citizenship and Immigration Services" were typed. Still confused, Riven continued to unseal the flap and retrieve several pieces of paper, turning them around in her hand. A placard, more papers a license…

Riven's rapidly pounding heart leapt into her throat as she read the first few lines of the first document. Her throat dry, she mumbled weakly, "This is… Is this…?"

Fiora beamed, latching her arm around Riven's. She nodded her head, enthusiastically.

Riven whipped her head around to resume her examination. She analyzed every line of every page, ensuring this was what she thought it was. She looked over to Fiora for confirmation. She swore the smile she received was the most beautiful smile she'd ever witnessed in her entire life. Her throat tightened. Her lip trembled. Her nose stuffed up. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes.

Fiora explained, "You already live in my house, and I consider you part of my family as you do to I, so I zought you would like to make your stay permanent."

Riven nodded vigorously, stammering, "B-but I thought- I thought this took _years_?"

"Usually. But, I pulled some strings, called in some favors, and wiz you still technically classified as a criminal, ze process took longer zan usual. I managed," Fiora summarized.

Her throat tightened further, her heart beat faster, and the trembling worsened. The dam broke, and suddenly Riven was sobbing hopelessly with happiness.

Riven was officially a Demacian citizen.

"T-Thank you! Thank you! T-t-thank you!" she cried through her tears, tackling her lover to the padded carpet floor. This was the most amazing thing ever to happen to her; sure, she'd stayed for extended periods of time here and there, but she would always ultimately leave for bigger and better things. This time was different. This was an invitation to stay with the love of her life 'til the end of days and after, and Riven never had a clue anyone could be as euphoric as she was right then. This was permanent. This was a commitment Riven was all too happy to make.

She tried to convey her gratefulness through their kisses, but she couldn't, so she tried harder. Fiora accepted all of her, holding Riven on top of her in a way that suggested she would never let her go. Riven was perfectly okay with that. Hands fumbled at Fiora's panties, desperate to show Fiora how much she loved her, and her lover fought back.

"No, mon chérie! Please, wait! _~Oohhhhh, mon dieu!~_ " Fiora moaned throatily as two fingers slipped beneath her waistband and into slick, wet heat. She squirmed, but Riven held her there with her body weight, savoring every little sound emanating from her incredibly aroused Fiora. Her lover continued to resist, but her moans, groans, and screeches of pleasure coupled with eyes squeezed shut, a mouth agape, and a back that arched up into her betrayed what she really wanted.

As her fingers roughly slid in and out from her pulsing snatch, Riven whispered, " _~Let me show you how much I love you.~_ "

Fiora heaved upward but barely managed to raise Riven and inch. She whined, every syllable jumping an octave at every thrust, "Please… If you con-tinue… I won't…"

Riven chuckled into her ear, " _~You'll be up and ready to fuck in a minute and a half, you little whore. Just enjoy it. We've got all day to fuck ourselves silly.~_ "

At her words Fiora relaxed and came screaming seconds later. Her body convulsed, her long, sexy legs locked around her lover's waist, and she screeched in short, strained gasps. Her fingers threaded into Riven's hair, pulling down and screeching erotically into Riven's mouth, their lips encasing as much of the other as they could as their tongues danced.

Riven's fingers continued to pump through her high until she gradually descended back down onto earth. This orgasm had been long and hard, and Riven was hyped that this was just the beginning as she sucked Fiora's considerable creaminess from her digits. Fiora held her close, whining when the occasional contraction seized her as Riven nipped at her ear, ran splayed fingers through her hair, and trailed her fingers down Fiora's endless legs.

As expected, Fiora recovered in remarkable time, and Riven propped herself upward to smile into Fiora's grinning face. A hand reached up and ruffled Riven's hair.

"You are mine and I am yours," she repeated giddily.

Riven leaned down, and before she could fully descend, Fiora met her halfway with a kiss that signaled that Fiora was ready for more rounds. Riven parted away, mumbling with a smirk, "Ready to open the last few presents now?"

"I am warmed up and ready," Fiora cooed sultrily.

Riven hoisted herself onto her haunches, carrying Fiora up with her and setting her on her lap sideways, and her lover hugged her tightly, staring up at her with those large eyes she knew Riven loved.

There weren't many presents left, but the couple would likely get more use out of these than all their others. Riven felt satisfaction as she noticed that Fiora's pile was larger than hers. It was _her_ turn to light up her lover's day.

"How about you start, darling?" Riven kissed her cheek, and Fiora reached out to snag a smaller present. Riven had hoped She would pick that one first.

She plucked the stick-on bow from the paper, then completely unwrapped the clear, plastic box. She appeared confused at first, but then a bashful smile spread across rosy cheeks as she read the label. Riven snatched the object from her hands, opening the already torn packaging as she'd washed the item previously so they could skip right to the action.

"You are very eager to commit those blasphemous, wonderful acts again, are you not?" Fiora sheepishly teased.

Riven took the flared bottom of the black butt plug, admired its curves and bulge, and asked Fiora in a suggestive tone, "You think it'll fit?"

Fiora just looked at her and mirrored her tone, "Zere is only one way to find out, yes?"

Riven smirked, the plug lowering to between her own legs, to Fiora's surprise. She raked the toy up and down her slit, coating it all with liquid arousal, then returned it to eye level. A single, thin strand dripped from the soaked toy, and Riven almost whispered, " _~We don't want it going in dry, do we?~_ "

Fiora raised a little, anticipation plastered over her features, and twisted so she faced Riven and straddled her lap. She raised her butt into the air, pleasantly smothering Riven with her breasts as Riven spread her lover's cheeks with one hand. Her breath hitched as the wet tip circled her anus, teasing her most sensitive spots there before prodding only the tip.

"Ready?"

"Yes." And with that, Riven began the slow process of fully inserting the toy. Fiora groaned and gasped with every movement, every wiggle to allow her to get used to the foreign object. Fiora received the toy remarkably well, and when the final segment was quickly sucked in, Fiora wheezed and pressed her lovers head to her bosom, burying those lovely lips into the wild locks of ashen white. She breathed, gradually lowering her bum and her body to sit with her hands around the nape of Riven's neck pulling their foreheads together so they touched.

When Fiora's eyes opened, and Riven could finally see her eyes, she was floored by the arousal welling there. Duly noted: butt stuff got Fiora hot and bothered real quick. They parted after a lingering kiss, but Fiora stayed planted right where she was, her head rolling around her neck with her eyes closed as she softly moaned.

"Want to keep going, or do you need me to get you off?" Riven asked.

Fiora shook her head, a pinkish, embarrassed tint coloring her sharp cheekbones that accompanied the shy smile on her lips. "No. I would like to pleasure you as well, but you must open your presents first."

They took turns back and forth, one unwrapping a present and displaying it to the other. Every now and then, Riven would tap the butt plug and Fiora would create a sound so spectacular she would never forget it. So far, they'd discovered an assortment of vibrators, some small as a pebble with cords and some were proper wands, dildos longer and thicker and wackier than the ones Fiora owned, some lingerie and kinky costumes, and scented candles and the like for setting the mood. There were also a vial of pills that the lovers discovered after reading the inscription "removed soreness in the loins of even the most prolific of lovers!" They would need those. Definitely. There were only two left now, the two they'd reserved for last.

Fiora's wetness as pooling into Riven's lap, and she couldn't be sure whether or not she'd be able to contain herself the next time did that thing where she bit her lip and touched herself. Thankfully, her lover wasn't doing either just then, Fiora's attention enraptured on the cardboard box before her. She used a nail to sever the scotch tape holding the flaps closed, and opened the box. Puzzlement at first as she extracted the first mess of leather and padding, followed by her retrieving the large dildo and grasping it in her hand.

"Is zis what I think it is?" Fiora asked unsurely. Her genuine innocence was Riven's undoing. Fiora saw the primal change in blood-red irises and smiled uncontrollably. "What did I do-?"

Their lips smashed together, and Fiora squealed in surprise at the raw barbarity Riven exuded as she wrapped her muscular arms around her. The surprise turned into moans of pure lust and then high-pitched intoxicating whines as Riven's fingers applied a constant pressure on the plug. She attempted to rise off of her lover, but Riven held her tight and refused her any movement. So Fiora accepted her situation, opting to squeeze and scratch in pleasure at her lover's rippling back, mashing her teeth against Riven's.

And then it stopped, and Fiora was carried bridal style to their bed. No sooner had she landed than had Riven clambered onto the ruffled covers as well, standing on her kneecaps between Fiora's eagerly spread legs. Fiora's upper body propped on her elbows and staring encouragingly at her lover whose head was bowed, she took the opportunity to gaze appreciatively at her lover's gorgeous body. She was so cute and sexy, but she never seemed to fully realize to what degree she was attractive. She had muscles, smaller than a man's but much denser, but she was plenty curvy as well. Large, full breasts, a kind, pretty face, and an ass that she could and had gotten lost for hours in topped the package, and Fiora sent another prayer to the heavens for sending her to her. Quickly, she unclasped the bra and slithered out of her panties with desperate grace, tossing the garments behind her.

Her head bowed, a naked Riven fiddled with the straps, cursing in exasperation. An impatient Fiora sat up and scooted forward to aid, buckling buckles and zipping zippers until the leather underwear was completely tied down. Riven placed her hands on Fiora's shoulders, and she looked up. Riven gently pushed her to the mattress, softly kissing her and running her fingernails up and down Fiora's abdomen. The savagery still lurked, but was temporarily replaced with kindness and sugar-sweet caring as a single hand clicked the dildo into place.

Riven looked her directly in the eyes and murmured, "This is all for you, my darling angel: if you end up not liking it, we won't do it." No protest from Fiora, just a heart-melting smile and a nod, so Riven interpreted it is at that Fiora was ready. She descended down her lover's fragile, unmatched body, lowered herself so that Fiora's legs could latch on to her, and pressed the tip lightly against her lover's entrance, who whined softly. "You tell me to go harder or faster, or softer or slower, ok? Just tell me to stop if it hurts, ok baby?"

A breathless, "Yes."

"Ready?"

A whispered, "Yes."

The spread Fiora's lips and only the tip gently entered. Fiora whined loudly, the hands above her head clutching the covers, and Riven pushed more inside. This was likely the largest Fiora's pussy had spread, but that wasn't really saying much. Still, Riven was slow and steady as more and more of the toy entered, and Riven relished the sounds both lips made: one was a cooing from a face with eyes shut tight and mouth lolling open, and the other was a naughty, wet shlick. Riven's lips pressed all over Fiora's captivating complexion, and the hand that didn't support her weight tickled wonderfully hot flesh. Just a little more, and- Riven could push no more. Fiora had taken the entire length all the way to the hilt, and lay there sweating from the simple amount of pleasure it brought her.

Then Riven pulled the toy from her entrance, her lover's lips visibly tugging at the dildo, until, once again, only the tip remained inside her. Riven glanced down at the member and licked her lips; the toy was absolutely smothered in white creaminess. Just another thing Riven adored about her darling angel.

"I'm going to start thrusting now, ok?" Riven whispered.

No response.

Riven pecked her lips. "I love you."

Then, she slowly thrusted. She did this for a long time, thrusting at a rhythmic pace, drawing every sort of sound from her lover. The skin of their loins grew steadily wetter as Riven lovingly fucked Fiora with the strap-on, her delicious creaminess spilling out and coating the dildo like the most mouth-watering fudge-dipped ice cream bar Riven had ever seen. She moaned and writhed and in moments of lucidness, she would hold Riven close and kiss her until she went blue in the face and retreated for just a second before reembracing. Both their bodies were heating up, and Fiora's soft cries grew ever louder, her heartbeat spiking and her grasp on Riven's neck and back pulling her in tighter.

Fiora's release arrived gradually, and just like their lovemaking was long and sensuous and wet. Her legs clamped around her lover's back, her sweaty body pushed up into Riven's, her eyelids fluttering as eyes rolled into her head, and when her tongue curled in her open mouth, Riven darted in, took the slippery morsel between her teeth, and sucked.

Fiora stilled for just a moment, the toy still inside of her. But her breathing didn't revert to its normal pace, and neither did her heart. Then her eyes opened suddenly and gave the look that let loose a wicked grin upon Riven's face. She knew this look, and she knew it well. Their previous session was simply a sample; the real deal happened now.

" _~Hard and fast?~_ " Riven crooned lecherously.

" _~Baise-moi. Fuck me, Riven.~_ " Her command was husky, and stoked the fire Riven had hidden.

Riven wasted no time. With a snarl, she sharply thrust inward. Fiora clenched, wailed with pleasure through grit teeth, and almost tore the sheets with how hard her hands gripped the covers. Riven wondered if she'd gone too far, but then a single eye opened just a smidge so that Riven could see how much her plump pupils begged her to continue. She grinned, retracted, then thrust again. Fiora clenched again, moaning louder.

" _~Plus fort!~_ " 'Faster,' she begged, and so Riven complied

Her hands wrapped up and around Fiora's shoulder blades to grasp her shoulders so she held a good grip on her lover, then thrust again. She picked up the pace, hot breath spilling from her mouth as her lover pleaded her to go harder, faster, rougher. The slapping of flesh echoed around the room along with a string of delicious obscenities intermingling with Riven's name, and Riven felt arousal, both hers and Fiora's delectable milk, spread down her thighs, and strands formed between their crotches. Riven's hand slithered downward between silky skin and silky sheets and put pressure on the butt plug, her lover clenching and screaming louder in reaction. Without warning, Fiora's hands released the covers and slipped up under Riven's arms, wildly screaming as their damp bodies rubbed quickly against each other. Riven growled into the kiss Fiora had locked them in as she felt fingernails score down her back, no doubt leaving a pair of pleasantly burning devil's wings scratched into her back.

On a whim, Riven ripped away from Fiora, who appeared shocked, confused, and angry at the sudden absence as the toy pulled out. Until she was flipped onto her hands and knees, and then she understood, eagerly offering her rear and throwing her gaze behind her, desperate for the pleasure to resume. Riven pounced, roughly mounting her lover, giving the perfect globes of her ass a sharp smack that drew a curse from her lover. Without hesitating, she reinserted and continued to pound away. The wet smacking resumed, and the delectable symphony that soared Riven to Cloud 9 continued to tumble from her darling angel's devilish lips. Riven leaned over so her breasts pressed firmly against Fiora's back and wrapped her arms around her stomach so she had a greater grip, her cheek against the nape of Fiora's bobbing neck. The friction their sweaty bodies created as Riven's rack grated against Fiora's back seared them painfully, pleasantly, deliciously. Liquid tumbled down both pairs of lean, powerful legs, pale, submissive chalkiness contrasting against dark, dominant olive, but both were coated with milky arousal. The slapping as Fiora's ass harshly collided with Riven's crotch, the screeches and guttural whining of the former, and the soaked shlicking were the only sounds of their fucking.

But it wasn't really fucking; it was hard and intense, but in the end they were simply making love. The way Riven's lips and tongue lovingly caressed the tasty, salty flesh of Fiora's neck. The blunt admissions of admiration from Riven to her lover, and the soft way she spoke these truths between snarling, degrading, false insults. The way two that fingers pinched a rock-hard nipple and the digits that were mercilessly rubbing at the engorged clitoris tried to wring all of the pleasure from Fiora's body so that Riven could make her lover feel the best she could. How it all combined into a slippery, moist, loud, screaming confession of love.

So ultimately, though she was being fucked like a bunny rabbit, she felt so loved. She felt it in every thrust and every spark of pleasure that erupted in her brain. She felt it in her loins as she came screeching, Riven thankfully never ceasing the actions that drove her over the edge. She felt it in the way all the breath was stolen from her lungs as pure pleasure filled her to brim, just like her pussy that clamped down on the dildo continuing to push in and out. She felt it in the grin that seized her face. Most importantly, she felt it in the way Riven whispered softly into her ear at the height of her climax: "I love you, Fiora." She twisted around as far as she could, locking lips with the object of her affection and attempting to pour everything she felt about the woman into this one kiss through her tongue that pressed against her lover's.

Fiora shuddered uncontrollably in her grasp, more liquid pooling and sliding down their thighs and into the soaked sheets. As Fiora lay face down, heaving, moaning her name, she pulled out and unfastened the buckles. Her muscular arms snaked around her lover's abdomen again, but this time there was a gentle intimacy to the embrace.

"Merry Christmas," Riven murmured, trying to ignore the fire in her core that refused to back down. Still, she preferred not to burden Fiora right after orgasm, especially one so intense.

Fiora turned, hindered by Riven's built figure, but her lover noticed and relived just enough pressure for her to laze on her back. She wore a broad, sappy smile, and the afterglow could've blinded Riven with its brilliance. Riven's chin rested just below Fiora's defined collarbone, and Fiora's arms encircled around her lover's neck as Riven did the same to her belly.

Fiora's euphoric laugh tickled all parts of the room, including Riven, and she reciprocated, "Merry Christmas, mon Riven."

"Have I ever told you I love the way you say my name?" Riven mumbled through a smile.

"And I adore ze way you say mine." Sex dripped from her voice out nowhere as she crooned, " _~In fact, I would like to hear you say my name.~_ " She sat up, wincing in pleasure and gasping quietly as the plug shifted in her anus. Riven also hoisted herself up, excitement flowing through her heart and her undercarriage.

A quick, passionate kiss was placed into Riven's lips, and then Fiora whispered, her lips grazing against the lobe of her lover's ear, " _~I zink you should unwrap your present, mon amour.~_ "

Riven nodded vigorously, sliding off the bed to saunter over to the final package. Fiora considered scurrying into her discarded garments, but decided to remain naked, save the red heels. Mother Nature's suit fit her better anyways.

Riven crouched to retrieve the package, and turned to see Fiora flaunting her curves, the Santa cap and the stilettoes the only thing she wore. Riven could tell that with every step, she wanted to yelp, but kept her gasps hidden well beneath a devious smile. Riven attempted to stand, but just as she began ascending, heeled toes planted themselves on her shoulder and halted her journey. Her core melted as her lover tsk-tsked with a shake of her head.

Her hands on her hips, Fiora queried with her foot still digging delightfully into Riven's shoulder, " _~Did I say you could get up?~_ "

Riven, slack-jawed, could only shake her head in wonder. She knew that Fiora tended to take the lead when she had experience with the situation, but nothing to this caliber.

" _~You should open your present,~_ " Fiora suggested, nodding down to the package in Riven's grasp. She could see juices dripping from her lover's soaked pussy from her view looking up, and wondered what, if anything, could keep this woman's libido in check. Riven hoped it was her.

Riven obeyed, tearing the festive paper and delving into the contents, smiling as she pulled them out. Various scarlet, leather straps and metal rings, padded, fuzzy handcuffs, ball gags, and blindfolds were strewn about the destroyed container, and Riven looked up expectantly, instantly assuming a posture both tall, yet submissive and waiting for orders with anticipation.

Fiora kneeled, purposefully spreading her legs wide so Riven could sneak a peek at the goods. God, Riven was horny and so, _so_ ready for this. She firmly grasped Riven's closed knee caps and gradually spread them, trailing splayed palms down the length of the inside of Riven's thighs. She came so close to where Riven needed her, but the teasing palms averted their paths to grip her hips and drag her forward. Riven whimpered in frustration.

Then Fiora leaned in, as if to kiss, but her face contorted and after Riven's astute gaze landed on her lover's hand curling around to her own rear, Riven realized she was removing the butt plug. The whole act was a show intended for Riven, her face twisting into pleasure and pain, moans escaping from her lips and Riven greedily absorbed it all. Finally, with a satisfied gasp, she brought the toy into vision turning it before her lover's eyes before wrapping her arms around Riven, who understood what was going on and elevated her hips. She wheezed several octaves higher than her normal voice as her asshole sucked the thing in all the way to its flared base.

Riven was still recovering from the enjoyable sensation of something being lodged in her bum when her hands were slowly brought around behind her back and cuffed. The cuffs were very comfortable, Fiora had ensured this, Riven realized; the only metal piece was the chain connecting the two pieces of plush, padded straps. The same was done to her ankles that she sat on, the cold metal cool against the skin of her cheeks. Then, with a quick warning, everything blacked out as a comfortable piece of cloth obscured her eyesight. Nothing else was strapped to her, and Fiora whispered in her ear from behind, her palms on Riven's shoulders.

" _~Zis will do for now. If zis agrees wiz you… I suppose I will punish you for being such a naughty little girl… Do you understand?~_ "

Riven shivered, thanking her lucky stars her lover was so adventurous and kind and beautiful and everything good Riven could think up of on the spot.

" _~Yes, Fiora.~_ "

A smack directly to the butt plug jarred Riven with its sudden, momentary change in depth and intensity. Her lover's silvery voice murmured into her ear, " _~You will call me Mistress when I make love to you in such a way, oui?~_ "

" _~Yes, Mistress.~_ " Breathy and excited.

For a second, Fiora dropped the act, tenderly hugging her from behind and resting her head on her shoulder. "And know zat I do love you, Riven, despite ze zings I may say or may call you. Just as you have done for me, zis is all for you." A quick peck on her smiling cheek and then Fiora slipped back into character.

Hands roamed the front of Riven's lean body, dipping in and out of curves as breasts pressed comfortingly into her upper back and a chin lazed on her shoulder. They traced each individual ab, digits leaving a trail of warmth on Riven's skin and leaving her breathless as the palm rubbed her tummy. They trailed up between the valley of her breasts, skirting around her globes and traveling along her defined collarbone. They journeyed down the tops of her thighs, thumbs passing so frustratingly close to her center but never quite reaching. They journeyed up, gradually raising until both hovered over her throat before descending, lightly choking Riven and introducing her to a new personal kink as she gasped for breath.

Then, they finally dropped to her breasts, massaging her sensitive, olive mounds. They groped and squeezed and pulled and pushed, her head dropping to rest on Fiora's shoulder with a moan. She groaned louder as digits pinched her hardened nipples, sparks flying with uttered obscenities. The fingers rolled and twisted her peaks, and Riven's hips began to involuntarily thrust.

" _~Mistress Fiora… Please…~_ " she whined.

Fiora giggled into her ear, nipping at the flesh in the most maddening way possible. " _~Mistress Fiora, please what, mon chérie?~_ "

" _~Mistress Fiora, please… Fuck me…~_ " she pleaded.

Fiora smiled into her neck. " _~Of course…~_ "

Those teasing hands traveled south, and Riven's breath hitched as they paused just outside of her core. Then, with a cry from Riven, two digits plunged into her molten heat as teeth bit her neck. The other hand held her flush to Fiora, Riven's hips bucking as her lover fingered her. Addicting, heart pounding friction rubbed at her insides, the fingers splaying and contracting in that way Riven loved. With every loud, sloppy thrust into her core, Fiora's fingers curled and struck that spot that made her toes curl and amplified every stroke and made every nerve ending in her snatch sing with pleasure. As Riven groaned and screamed, Fiora huskily whispered the most degrading, sexiest insults commenting on how only a whore could ever be this dripping wet, on how widely her legs spread and how graciously her pussy accepted her fingers, on how filthy she was to be enjoying such a sinful deed

Her orgasm hit her hard and fast, palm slapping against her undercarriage as the fingers fucked her through every wild spasm of her hips. The insults ceased, and the hand that held her close darted to grasp her roughly by the hair and twist Riven's head to the side where Fiora viciously kissed her, her tongue beating her lovers into submission. Eventually, the digits pulled out.

" _~Taste yourself, mon amour,~_ " Fiora commanded, and Riven breathlessly, longingly searched the air for the promised finger, her tongue writhing out in front until they connected with Fiora's digits and sucked enthusiastically.

Unfortunately, Riven's recovery time was nowhere near Fiora's, and thus they were forced to get creative. But Fiora already had a plan, apparently, as she unclasped the ankle bindings and stood, carefully pulling a wobbly, lovey-dovey giant up onto her feet and slowly sauntered them over to the bed.

" _~To ze bed, mon Riven. We are far from finished.~_ "

They halted just in front of the damp sheets where liquids pooled, and Fiora turned to Riven. Her heels granted her some extra height, but she still stood on tiptoes to kiss her lover. Arms snaked around to grip at Riven's plump asscheeks, the other applying pressure in a pattern to the butt plug and drawing a cute gasp not fitting for someone of her lover's size or stature. Fiora started getting more physical, pushing harder and deeper on the plug and beginning the battle of tongues that she would eventually win. She aggressively pushed herself into her lover, swaying her hips to and fro as she ground their bodies together. Fiora moaned throatily, humping her hips and grinding her nipples against Riven's, wrapping around her lover and generally doing everything in her power to get the object of her affection up and ready for another round.

After an extended session of making out, Fiora unexpectantly stepped away and shoved Riven face first into the mattress. Fiora pushed a Riven struggling to turn over further up the bed and took her seat, stopping her efforts to flip onto her back. Riven stopped, her ass propped up and her legs splayed to either side of the bed. The sight was of the most magnificent she'd ever witnessed, and she so looked forward to when this would surely be a common occurrence.

Her hands palmed Riven's ass. " _~You know, I am lucky to possess a slave as beautiful as you.~_ " A sheepish smile from her lover, then.

Riven's lightly bronzed thighs were absolutely coated with liquid arousal, the delicious stuff glopping down her legs and pooling around her core. When her hand descended to grip the base of the plug resting in her anus, she found the plastic completely doused. Riven's breath caught and she whined as Fiora pulled the plug from her anus, feeling cool air rush in to her slightly gaping asshole.

And then a hot, wet tongue replaced the toy and Riven's eyes rolled to the back of her head as she loosed a high-pitched moan. Fingers spread her cheeks far apart as the rim was kissed with warm lips, the tongue reaching deeper than she'd thought it could. It wriggled and pushed and spread its wetness everywhere, hot moistness lasciviously curling and swirling and painting a smile on her face that smooshed into the mattress. Fiora was so skilled with her tongue, the sultry muscle masterfully massaging the meat of her asshole and rubbing out every ounce of pleasure an asshole could possibly contain.

Riven was very ready to receive again, and Fiora noticed the way that Riven shifted every time her tongue buried deep slurped in a new direction. Riven screamed Fiora's name as three fingers penetrated her entrance knuckle-deep, the tongue never ceasing its heavenly ministrations. She felt every minute wrinkle on every digit as they stretched her to oblivion and back with their girth, juices spilling out with every harsh thrust. More of that unreal friction prickled and seared her insides with pure, unadulterated pleasure, rubbing against her velvety walls with a passionate, quick tempo. The sucking, wet slapping of knuckles colliding over and over with a moist entrance accompanied hungry smacking and the hopeless wailing of a woman driven mad with pleasure. Sometime during the welcome assault on her molten core, the fingers began spreading and swirling and twisting and curling, filling Riven with so much joy she overflowed with concentrated, liquid happiness, making a proper mess of the sheets below her.

Riven made it a surprisingly long distance before she succumbed to orgasm. She felt so full, her pussy being pumped relentlessly and her ass stuffed with wonderful tongue. She shuddered violently, screaming silently in ecstasy as her lungs possessed no air to expel, while unrestrained euphoria rushed through every vein and filled her heart with so much love and satisfaction. She was in unrestrained bliss.

After a staggeringly long period of bathing in sensual rapture, she was left a blubbering, stammering, gasping tangled of limbs. The pills worked: she didn't ache, but she felt robbed of energy. Fiora was bent over her now, palm soothingly gliding over her tummy and her body as she hugged her and smooched her shoulder.

" _~I see you enjoyed my gift, mon amour,~_ " she teased, regarding Riven with so much love and adoration.

Riven grinned wide and nodded feebily.

" _~Good. We are not finished yet, I hope?~_ " Fiora seemed scared of the answer.

" _~Of course not. We're just getting started, aren't we?~_ " Riven lecherously cooed, strength gradually returning.

Something was flicked on, and a constant buzz sounded from behind her. She moaned, loudly, throatily, enthusiastically, as what must have been one of their vibrating dildos was pressed against her entrance.

" _~Merry Christmas, mon amour.~_ " A smooch on her cheek. " _~I love you, my darling slave.~_ "

And with that, the toy plunged deep into Riven's doused, excited core.

 **ooooo**

 **Alright, so I wasn't expecting this to be so intimately detailed. Well, here's your porn I guess. Merry Christmas!**


	27. Chapter 26- The Hit List

**Hey guys! I managed to sneak in time to write a chapter. Things are still really busy, but I'll figure something out. As always, leave a comment and enjoy!**

 **3 Weeks Ago**

Riven wanted nothing more than to charge through the gates of Noxus and carve out the plague-ridden hearts who'd infected her homeland, but she knew this was foolish. As much as she loathed to admit, the vermin that needed banished had burrowed themselves so deeply into the Noxian governmental infrastructure that removing them would collapse the entire system upon itself; Riven's ambition was to purify Noxus, not burn it to the ground.

But she knew that despite everything, despite whatever difference her one, sole person could do to an entire empire of people who wanted nothing to do with her or her principles, that starting over again might be the only feasible course of action. Noxus was just so far gone; if the once-proud nation wasn't already tumbling into the void, it teetered precariously on the edge, and Riven wasn't certain she possessed the strength to pull her beloved Noxus from certain doom.

Regardless of how futile her efforts were on that front, she couldn't give up now, not when the red dogs of war tore Ionia to bloody pieces. She knew she could do _something_ about that, at least. So Riven would do something about that.

Unfortunately, Riven had no clue where to even begin. She couldn't simply hunt down and assassinate those that needed assassinating, largely because she didn't know who needed assassinating. Over the last decade, she'd kept a sensitive ear for all information related to the war, so she was aware of most of the top dogs, but Riven realized those names were likely dummy targets to draw out the enemy.

If the collective entity of bloodthirsty, selfish sadists known as the Noxian government was revered, or feared, for anything other than killing, they would be paradoxically famed for their extraordinary ability to keep a secret. The dense web of spies and informants was spun in such a way so that no one knew the true identity of anyone, other than those that were absolutely necessary. Rumor had it that not even the Spymaster himself- or herself, no one really knows, of course- knows who operates under his command. Thus, Riven could accomplish practically nothing on her own, save harassing Noxian troops in one-woman raids here and there.

In other words, Riven needed allies. And she knew just where to find them.

 **ooooo**

Riven had only ever visited the Ionian Capital City a handful of times, and even though her ventures inside the city limits were always short, she found herself desiring to return immediately upon leaving. The place was breathtaking, the culture rich and the cast diverse, for the city itself exuded an innate hospitable sympathy for all weary travelers of sea or land or sky, and the easy-going people would welcome anyone as if they were a long-lost friend.

However, those cordial vibes were reserved for practically everyone save for Riven's kind, and that reason, among others, kept her at bay. She hoped that would change with time, but she'd hoped for a lot things that had yet to come to fruition.

Then again, she realized with images of a fair-skin and velvety black hair streaked with purplish-red and warm smiles and warmer hugs, a lot of her hopes and dreams had come true as well. So she trekked forth, despite the dismal odds and the glares she received, and used the memories of better time as an unending fuel for her journey. She had the drive to do what needed to be done; now she needed the equipment.

And that brought her back to the present.

Once again, she noticed the beauty of her surroundings.

The entire city rested in the shadows of two monumental cliff sides that seemed to travel into infinity. The peaks were obscured by a gentle, yet firm fog that refused to dissipate, eerily static and concealing of everything atop the outcropping of craggy rock. In the summer, multiple torrents of water would pour from the cliffs, but winter had seized them for her own. Now, they were entirely ice, colossal pillars of glistering, translucent crystal that shimmered and whispered and refracted all light as the frozen river defied physics without magic and endlessly crawl up the sheer cliff side into the bank of fog.

The snow had ceased some time ago, but the cold continued to relentlessly batter the island province, the sun concealed by the solid, undulating quilt of clouds above. The stone path Riven tread upon was slippery with clear ice, drifts of snow shoveled to the sides and sitting contentedly in humongous piles in which children used as sled ramps or hollowed out to transform the streets and the squares into a mystical land of imaginary kingdoms and castles where the monarchs waged snowy war. Angled rooves that curled at the edges proved a great deposit for more snow, and the accumulation added feet of height to each building with walls of red brick and mortar or grey, chiseled stone framed by dark beams of wood. Of course, white flakes had built up on every flat surface, icicles dripping down from gutters in savage, fragile rows of winter's fangs.

From second stories, "windows" of orange and red and yellow paper filtered the light they cast into the grim day, as if to make up for the sun's absence and give the town the all of the warm oranges and reds and yellows it needs. Storefronts with their varied signs swaying in the breeze above their doors spilled forth light into the street from real windows through which Riven could spy merry wanderers laughing jovially despite the times around tables with frothy ales clutched in their frozen mitts, lines of bamboo racks from which hung silken kimonos and assortments of other cloth garments, the variety of delicate, frosted ornaments on display at bakeries that emanated odors that were so deliciously irresistible, and so many, many other possibilities that basked in the toastiness of the indoors.

Riven yearned to enter one of such places and just relax for a single moment, but she decided against it; her flesh was crispy and crackly not only from the searing cold of the elements, but also from the frosty glares that tracked her position wherever she stepped. Besides, Riven's objective wasn't to peruse the wonderful, cozy village of Ionia, but to ensure the city would still exist when the next morning peeked it's weary head over the valley's walls.

She wrapped her cloak tighter around her body, pulled her hood farther down, as she forced herself onward through unyielding winds and withering stares, past the burning lamplights who lent warmth in exchange for proximity that fringed the streets in numerous intervals, up inclines and through stairways that lead ever upward. Her target was the capital building, where those who would help her resided. They had to help her, otherwise this entire escapade would be over before it began.

Riven was aware of the eyes on her back all throughout her travel through the city, so she wasn't surprised in the least bit to hear an entire platoon of soldiers decked in Ionian battle garb march toward her as she ambled down the streets. She turned to eye them as they approached; they were definitely here for her, though whether their intentions were to confirm that she wasn't a threat or to lock her up in some dungeon was yet to be determined.

"Noxian! Halt and stand before the Ionian Guard!"

Riven obeyed, eyeing them from beneath her hood. Her hands grasped the rawhide cloak as it flapped and pressed it close to her figure. From what she could tell, none had glimpsed the weapon at her hip, or the satchel at her other because of the way the cloak plastered to her figure.

The Ionians weren't fooling around; if memory served correctly, these were top tier soldiers. Heavily armored in red plates that seemed to billow from the body in layers, they carried spears and katanas at the ready, prepared to strike down the trespasser if necessary. Their fearsome masks resembled demons screaming in eternal rage, engraved teeth painstakingly painted white, and their eyes that peered at her glowered to match. They certainly looked the part.

"I come in peace," she informed them.

"You cannot fool us with your lies, Noxian. That is what the last caravan said- right before they attacked the Placidium." His voice was muffled by his mask, but the general gist was betrayed when the other warriors converged upon her.

She stood just a little taller.

"I'm not lying," she insisted. She would try for diplomacy for as long as she could. She supposed she could reveal her name, but would they listen? Surely they knew that Master Yi was a man, not a woman? She got away with it on the continent purely because Yi was but a simple rumor, able to be twisted to her favor, but here in his birthplace, they would likely catch on.

"And what proof do you have?" he asked, disbelief evident.

She could show them the fifty Crimson Elite medallions stashed in her pack. She decided then that that would be her last-ditch effort; who would believe one person eliminated fifty of the deadliest warriors anyway? To her, that would just enforce the theory that she was nothing more than lying Noxian scum.

"For one, I've yet to attack anyone yet."

"True, true," he admitted. "But it would not be so wise to reveal your position before you spring the trap, now would it?" His voice boomed, capturing the attention of random citizens.

"You think that was sneaking?" she asked, feigning offense. "Plus, I'm just one person. How much harm can one person possibly cause?"

She was surrounded now, by men whose weapons barely managed to stay sheathed.

He laughed heartily, but not in a way that would unconsciously tug at the corners of her mouth. "Just ask The Will of the Blades! She slayed leagues of your kind when you failed to steal our dear Placidium from us. Well, I say if you want to take our homeland from us, you will have to pry it from our cold, dead fingers! Am I right lads?!" he cried.

She cringed, both from the throaty, enthusiastic shouting that followed and from their actually offensive assumption that she was just another Noxian barbarian dead-set on driving them from their homes.

"Strip her of her weapons; she will accompany us to the Captain of the Guard!"

A band of "Hurrah!"s followed, and the man just stood there looking pleased with himself.

Some unlucky soul decided that it would be best to disarm her himself, she realized as her weapon jiggled in its holster without her touching it.

She acted upon instinct, for that was the only excuse that could possibly influence her to do such a thing, twisting her entire body to wrench the offender's mitt from her precious and, once she'd discerned who was stupid enough to pull that stunt, struck his throat with her right fist and sent him tumbling to the frozen ground. She immediately regretted the action, cursing her jumpiness, and wincing once she'd realized that she'd just deemed their unfounded suspicions true.

The repercussions were instant: the familiar sound of weapons freeing themselves from their sheathes filled her eardrums, as well as expletives from both herself and the Ionian Guard surrounding her. Swords and spears raised at her throat.

"Move not an inch, lest you wish to die here, cretin!" he spat, and she rolled her eyes in reply.

Gradually, cautiously, Riven's hand that was raised in surrender traveled to the hilt of her blade. The silent, strained tension grew exponentially as her fingers wrapped loosely around the pommel, and then doubly so when she finally pulled the blade free. A few expressions of confusion washed over the group as they noticed the size and condition of the weapon, but she paid them no heed. The suspense was only hampered when the abnormally sharp blade sank two inches into the stone floor after falling from her hands.

"There. Now, I have something in my satchel that I think-."

"I do not care for what you possess in your satchel."

"But I have evidence in my satchel-."

"I will not repeat myself. With me. Now."

She dropped her head in defeat, exhaling loudly. After mulling it over, she begrudgingly agreed, "Fine. With you, then."

He, along with the other warriors, pivoted and marched away after ensuring she did the same. As she sauntered in their footsteps, spectators clapped and audibly displayed their appreciation for their esteemed guard.

Riven still tugged at the cloak, gritting her teeth with every stray wind that sprinkled flecks of snow onto her exposed skin. This was a setback, but once she explained herself, she was sure they would understand.

To quell her rising anxiety, she conjured images of Fiora. She'd done that a lot recently, thought of Fiora to ease her during moments of stress, and she wondered whether Fiora did the same. She wondered what her beloved was thinking of now, as flakes began to fall again. She hated that she needed to leave her so soon after making that promise, hated it more than almost anything. But Fiora was right: she wasn't the only person that needed Riven's help.

She was abruptly ripped from her mind's eye when she noticed they'd arrived at their destination. The Capital Building loomed benevolently over them, marble steps ascending to flatten out for a distance, creating a sort of courtyard of polished stone cut with mesmerizing engravings where benches and trees hoisting massive blankets of snow clustered here and there. The building itself was the largest structure in the area, even considering it was mostly embedded into the cliff face, and the building's superiority was highlighted by the fact that it was perched upon the tallest hill; the city almost looked as if the Capital Building sat upon a pile comprised of all the little shops and stores and homes.

Originally, before this spot had become inhabited, the tallest, greatest waterfall in existence had plummeted in the exact spot the Capital building now stood. Instead of seeking the source atop the mesa and plugging it up, Ionian architects reveled in the possibilities the waterfall posed. After many different designs, they decided upon the current blueprint: the roof of the building bisected the waterfall, the rushing river redirected into two equal spouts by two elaborately designed channels so that it seemed as if the façade of the building were peeking out from behind it's watery curtain. But now that winter had revealed herself, the water had morphed into columns of glass, frozen in time and space. The face was layered, with each layer retreating further and further until the top nestled comfortably in the stone wall carved by rain and smoothed by wind. The traditional Ionian style was perpetuated very clearly here, with cherry red supports and designs speckling the alabaster walls topped with sloping tiles from which dangled lanterns that looked lighter than air. Overall, the building appeared elegant and stylish, and somehow peaceful with the graceful curves and tranquil with the silence that seemed to flow with the frozen waterfall. In other words, the Capital Building was one of the best representations of Ionian ideologies Riven had ever laid eyes upon.

Step by step, the group and their captive swiftly mantled the stairs, reaching the apex so that Riven could properly behold the building's glory. They shuffled forth toward the capital, quickly approaching the gargantuan doors that stood a solemn, silent sentinel.

Then, just as they were almost there, the doors swung open, and five figures emerged.

The instant the soldiers recognized them, they halted and dropped to one knee, heads bowed in respect. Riven, bewildered, quickly surveyed the crouched soldiers who appeared to have forgotten the "dangerous Noxian" captive they escorted before her eyes darted upward to take in the extra company.

Four of the strangers were soldiers of even higher tier than the ones at her feet, high-quality, lighter armor embellished with stark golden contrasts.

The woman they formed a protective box around was what really caught Riven's eye, but not necessarily because of her beauty- she was pretty no doubt, with sharp, almond-shaped eyes, skin almost untouched by age, armor that highlighted her sleek, fit body, and waves of raven silk that billowed as she walked. What Riven eyed warily was the sixth entity: a levitating blue orb flanked by four blades reminiscent of thin butterfly wings half as long as she was tall. A similar device, though more closely resembling wings than blades, hovered directly behind her head, bobbing as her head bobbed, swaying hypnotically side to side as she shook her head "no" to something one of her companions posed. The woman stopped just before the group, giving Riven the once-over, attempting to read Riven through her eyes.

"Rise," the woman commanded, voice strong and filled with natural authority.

The soldiers rose, standing tall with heels together and hands clasped behind their backs.

"Captain," the point man addressed, nodding his head.

The woman looked through him, attempting to eye Riven through the crowd, before looking _at_ him and asking, "Who is she?"

"This is the threat the tower identified, Captain," he informed uneasily, realizing how silly he sounded labelling a single woman shivering in the cold a "threat".

Nevertheless, the woman was obviously as cautious as the man was, and nodded her head.

"Step forward," she commanded, and the sea parted for Riven, who stepped forward until she deemed appropriate. Now that she was closer, each woman thoroughly profiled the other. Riven deduced that the woman before her could be no older than twenty-five years old, and wondered just what she could've done to inspire the kind of respect the soldiers revered her with at this age.

"Who are you?"

She debated how to answer this. She couldn't very well be Master Yi in one place and Riven in another. Then again, if Yi really did amass the amount of fame he'd claimed he had before she'd inherited the name, they were likely to know that what the real Master Yi looked like.

She'd apparently taken too long to come up with an answer because the woman commented on her extended silence, "Not the talkative type, I see?"

"She spoke earlier!" the man interjected, but stepped back into line after receiving a glare from both women, throwing in, "Captain."

"If not your name, at least speak of your intentions here?"

A reasonable request. "I'm here to help with the war effort."

That elicited a few snickers from the crowd behind her, and with a stern raise of her hand, the woman shushed them.

"You are?" she asked dubiously.

"Listen: I get it. I'm Noxian. Why would a Noxian want to stop a war that Noxus is winning?"

That last bit injected tension into the atmosphere, but it had more to do with the truth of it than pride: Ionia could only hold out for so long, and Noxus, accustomed to decade-long wars, was burning just as strong as the first day of the war, albeit with much less of a fuse. Riven could sympathize with the difficulty of facing the reality that Ionia might end up just another name in a history textbook.

"And why _would_ a Noxian want to stop a war that Noxus is winning?" the woman echoed.

Once again, Riven thought.

' _Because I hate what Noxus has become? Because I feel remorse for killing your elder and murdering towns' worth of people?_ ' But that likely wouldn't gain her any favors.

"I have my reasons. They're good reasons, I assure you."

She was dissatisfied with that answer. "How can I be sure your reasons are good?"

"I suppose you'll have to trust me."

"But how can I trust you if I am not aware of your intentions?" she countered.

Riven preferred not to delve into another conversation on trust, and decided to open with her only realistic option. She unhooked her satchel- she preferred not to expose herself to winter's frozen edge by removing her cloak- and extended the item for her to take.

One of her personal guards intercepted the package, stepping in front and attempting to intimidate Riven with his presence. Had Riven been anyone else, the tactic likely would have worked.

"Kaito!" the woman exclaimed, and he turned to eye her. "There is no need."

"It could be a trap-."

"Then if it is, I trust you will protect me." Her words worked, though he was reluctant in his retreat to his position. She took the satchel in her hands and unclasped the flap.

Her eyes widened just a little bit, just enough that only Riven would notice, when she spied the contents. She glanced up at Riven, silently questioning whether or not they were real. After a long time, she retrieved a single black medallion with a red skull and raised it in front of her eyes, turning the object over to check its authenticity. When she confirmed that it was indeed the real thing, she became even more confused.

The four guards, though they stood still as statutes, allowed their heads to turn and their gazes to rake over the object; the other soldiers wouldn't know this symbol, but apparently this woman's personal guards knew exactly what it was.

The woman returned to rifle through the satchel, and Riven confirmed the unsaid question.

"There are fifty in total."

The woman looked up at this, her face undecipherable. "Did you…?"

"Well, I certainly didn't ask them nicely."

"What did you say your name was?"

' _Aw hell, why not?_ '

"I am Master Yi."

A few outcries from the crowd behind her, and a few suspicious glances from the woman's personal guards, but something clicked in the woman's mind.

"Come with me. Immediately," she requested. And with that, she pivoted to leave as if Riven had no other choice.

"But Captain! This woman is an imposter!" the man yelled.

The woman turned instantly, ochre irises colder than ice. "I will not tolerate you questioning my authority. She comes with me right now, whether you agree with my actions or not." She looked to Riven, who hadn't budged. "Are you coming?"

Riven glanced to the group. "If you don't mind, Captain, I'd prefer to reunite with my weaponry. And my satchel, if you would."

"I will hang on to your satchel. I will permit you to retrieve your weapon." She looked expectantly to the man, who almost tried to argue. But she cut him down again before he could even begin, and he reluctantly ordered the person in possession of her weapon to step forth. The person who handed off the blade seemed even more hesitant than his superior to relinquish her sword, but she snatched it up anyways and returned her weapon into its sheath, the comfortable _snick!_ of metal sliding smoothly against metal ringing in all their ears.

As she fell into stride with the other woman, she asked, "I don't believe I caught your name."

What followed sounded rehearsed, as if the woman walking beside her didn't quite believe what she was saying, but had memorized the lines anyway until she could summon fake confidence.

"I am Irelia, the Will of the Blades and Captain of the Ionian Guard."

 **ooooo**

The foyer was just as gorgeous as the exterior, and sustained the ongoing Ionian theme. The walls and floors a pastel beige, the contrasting deep, mahogany support beams and even the rafters where delicately whittled with Ionian caricatures and symbols. Colorful collages functioned as backgrounds to weapon stands flaunting katanas and daggers and dual-bladed staffs all gilded with golden etchings and inscriptions. There were portraits of what Riven could only assume were major Ionian figureheads pinned to the walls, and from the ceiling hung banners with lettering, most of which Riven could read.

Irelia stopped just before the doors to the main hall where Riven could catch snippets of a heated argument. The Captain turned to her subordinates and dismissed them to return to their positions.

The one known as Kaito attempted to disagree, albeit much more respectfully than the man outside. "But Captain, she is Noxian."

"Kaito, your concern does not go unappreciated. But as your Captain, you must trust that I am making the correct decision."

He was well trained; with a curt nod, he surrendered and rounded up the others before they disappeared to parts unknown.

Irelia watched Riven closely as she removed the hood from her head, revealing her uncooperative platinum-blonde hair. After a moment of silence filled with two pairs of eyes that scrutinized every detail, Irelie spoke.

"Something wrong?" Riven asked.

"My father was once good friends with you, Master Yi, before he passed away. That was at age sixteen I believe?" She scanned her again. "But the Master Yi I remember was much more…"

"Yellow?" Riven offered casually.

"Masculine."

"Things change over time."

"But not something like that, I think," Irelia contemplated.

The ruse was up; Riven watched the motionless wicked butterfly behind her in anticipation of an attack.

Irelia chuckled when she realized what Riven was staring at. "Relax. I will not harm you."

"That's not the first time I heard that, you know."

"And it likely will not be the last, if the stories are true." Irelia picked up on Riven's quirked eyebrow. "I, along with the majority of Ionia, have heard the many tales of your travels, 'Master Yi.' In fact, you have amassed quite a following here; many people look forward to the day the legendary Master Yi returns to wreak havoc upon the forces of Noxus, just as he had during the earlier days of the war."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be."

Another silence as the two attempted to think of something to spur the conversation along.

Riven addressed the elephant in the room. "We both know I'm not the real Master Yi. So why are you trusting me?"

"Lee Sin appears to be a mutual acquaintance. He warned me of the arrival of a Master Yi, but that you were not quite as I remember you. He also- ah, how did he put it?" Irelia frowned as she recalled Sin's exact words. "I believe he told me, 'not to underestimate you, for the Red Scourge has been swiftly dealt with.' Honestly, I did not believe him at first. The Crimson Elite had remained our largest enemy since the beginning of this dreadful war, and we'd recently begun to give credit to the rumors that they were immortal. But it seems as if we must worry no longer on that topic, yes?"

"For the time being," Riven admitted. "Noxus will of course rebuild the Crimson Elite, but their greatest asset is lost." She motioned toward the satchel filled with medallions. "Show those to your troops to prove that they can die, and I guarantee morale will raise."

"I think I will." She twisted to glance at the double doors of the main hall, then turned back. "You said you wanted to help with the war effort?"

Remembering her original objective, Riven straightened her spine. "Yes, that's correct."

"Then follow me. The others might need some persuading, but I am certain we can convince them of your usefulness," Irelia stated, pivoting to waltz towards the door. Riven stayed close as the duo entered the main hall.

The main hall was identically decorated, with vacant sets of armor positioned next to all entryways. The room was circular, and larger than the foyer before it, with as many flags gently tumbling down the walls as there were provinces in Ionia. At the center of this room was a table, but Riven's view of it was blocked by the ring of men and women in robes that circumnavigated the entire perimeter. Riven recognized them by their garbs: they were the remaining Elders of Ionia, the ensigns of the territories they ruled over brazenly published upon their backs. Most were old and wrinkled, and it seemed the older they were, the louder they argued their point of view that _obviously_ overrode everyone else's.

As soon as they noticed her darker skin and sharper features, the room hushed to a deathly quiet. Unperturbed by this and expecting Riven to adopt the same attitude, Irelia ignored the stares and the whispers and picked up the pace until they'd arrived at the table.

The group parted as Irelia approached, but judging from the glares and the unadulterated hostility present in almost all sets of eyes, Riven guessed their growing proximity had more to do with fear of the outsider than respect for their Captain. Riven stood just behind Irelia with her arms crossed, the Captain's posture tall and demanding all ears.

A woman from across the table spoke before Irelia could.

"Who is our visitor?"

The voice deep, voluminous, and self-assured, yet calming belonged to a woman with skin as dark as Riven's. A dark pixie cut restrained by a crown of sorts washed over a soft face with eyes that could either incite the lust for battle in the feeblest of persons or soothe the temper of even the most furious of bloodthirsty warriors, depending on what the moment called for. A sleeveless robe of tranquil, luxurious violet that showcased powerful thighs rolled from her body like the pacifying aura that her demeanor radiated; that is, like the frothy, relaxing breakers that serenely crawled to shore on the picturesque beaches of Ionia. Two wings bobbed behind her shoulder blades, between which two emerald dragons ceaselessly chased each other's tails in slow, relaxed circles. Her mere existence in the room was relieving, and Riven found herself forgetting her worries.

However, the Elders seemed immune to this effect, as their glares remained unwavering.

"This… This is someone who can help us," Irelia decided.

The woman's eyes gazed into Riven's spirit, and she shifted uncomfortably.

Someone scoffed in the audience, and a feminine voice spoke up, "A Noxian is here to help? Do not make me laugh!"

Irelia looked to the origin of the voice. "I would never joke about such things, especially not now."

The voice replied, appalled, "You would enlist help from one of _them?!_ "

Another voice added, "We cannot trust them! They are savages, the lot of them!"

A din raised, with everyone shouting their two cents, Riven's lip curling at the vicious, downright offensive insults thrown her way.

"Never trust a Noxian!"

"Has the Captain gone mad?! After all those vermin have done to us, she thinks they will help us?!"

"She is a spy!"

"She is a thief!"

Then, a shrill voice growing more shrill with every second, "She is here to murder us all! _Guards! Guards! Help!_ "

From every door, the Ionian Guard burst into the room, weapons drawn and ready to kill, the fear of attack kindling the flames of battle in their eyes. They caught sight of Riven, and converged upon her. In an instant, her sword was pulled from it's sheath, runes of her Windblade glowing a vibrant green, grim expression of distraught exasperation painted all over her face; she held no intention of killing anyone, but they might force her hand. Perhaps seeking aid from the Ionians wasn't such a good idea after all.

" _Halt!_ " the winged woman boomed, and with her words, time stopped just before the Guard could come within striking distance. Everyone paused their assault, but refused to relax, still ducked into a fighting stance. The woman's words were barely managing to root the combatants to their spot, the suspense rising until it would eventually shatter and violent, wholly unnecessary chaos would be unleashed.

Not quite angry, but definitely not pleased with the current state of affairs, the winged woman floated just a tad bit higher than everyone else, raking over man and woman until she eyed the culprit.

Sternly, with a disapproving edge laced in her tone, the woman scorned, "Never once did the visitor raise her voice, much less her weapon, against the people of this room. And when she was forced to defend herself, she refrained from the violent solution for as long as possible."

She slowly looked to the armor-clad individuals in the room. "You are dismissed."

Hesitantly, they raised from a combat stance, but they refused to budge.

" _You are dismissed._ "

Irelia chimed in with a tone serious and, unlike the winged woman, hinted with anger, "There is no threat here. You will leave us to negotiate, or you will face punishment."

Encouraged by both their leader and their superior officer, they gradually funneled from the room, the burning gaze of Irelia sundering through their armor and when there were no more suits to seethe at, she turned her spiteful glare to the Elders. The winged woman had touched down.

"Thank you, Captain," the winged woman nodded, and Irelia's tempered simmered until there was only business in her posture.

Irelia sighed. "I just wish we could set our differences aside for one minute."

"Indeed." The winged woman looked to Riven and bowed her head. "Greetings. I am known as Karma. I am The Enlightened One."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, there." Riven couldn't resist mumbling under her breath.

Irelia chortled quietly, and Karma frowned before brushing the incident off.

"I apologize for the hostile introductions. However, Setsuko brings up a valid point. How can we trust that your intentions are pure?"

At this, Irelia tossed the satchel, and from it spilled the contents. Parcels of food, instruments of survival, and an overwhelming amount of Crimson Elite tokens scattered across the table.

An incredulous silence.

One of the Elders picked up a piece, brow furrowed as he verified for himself that they were real.

Karma eyed Riven thoughtfully, then Irelia.

"They are real," Irelia announced. "I have counted. There are indeed, fifty."

Gasps and whispered, ' _Fifty?! As in, all fifty?!_ '

"This cannot be right! A ruse! How can one person claim to possess all fifty tokens of the Red Scourge?" a taller man argued.

Riven looked him straight in the eye and asked, "How do you think?"

Realization reached him and everyone in the audience.

"Are you saying you, _one person_ , terminated the entire Red Scourge?" he asked, as if the answer was obvious.

"Yes, I am," Riven confirmed, aware of how ludicrous the statement sounded. Even karma appeared skeptical.

"Impossible! Even our best warriors have been largely unable to slay even one of such beasts!" he cried, and the hubbub regained momentum, but Irelia raised a hand the muttering died away.

"It is true that we have been unsuccessful in our attempts to battle the Red Scourge. But I have from good authority, word that what she says is true," Irelia confessed.

"Who vouches for her?" Karma asked.

"Lee Sin."

Karma nodded, and all doubt disappeared from her demeanor. "Lee Sin is a good man. He would not lie of such things; if he says it is true, it must be true."

"But-!" the man interjected.

"The issue is resolved. The visitor is now deemed trustworthy. Do we all understand?" Karma inquired. The silence was interpreted as agreement. "Good."

The Elders tentatively reassumed their positions around the table before the whole ordeal began, the one's closest to her hesitant and wary of being so near to Riven. However she paid them no heed; with that out of the way, the time to get down to brass tacks had arrived.

Riven looked down to the table and it finally register that she was leaning on a map. The entire table was a to-scale aerial view of Ionia and most of the waters surrounding the isle. There were lines and pieces of two different colors: a sky blue and a menacing black. As the argument about the topic that was being discussed previous to Riven's invasion roused once more, with Elder's pointing here and there, she realized the map was magic; the wavy troughs that represented the sea moved on the paper, and the lines representing the front shifted at the whim of whatever Elder wished it to.

Irelia leaned down next to her, imitating Riven's stance with both hands supporting her weight. "How familiar are you with the war?"

"I know as much as a woman from the Continent could know. So that would be vague rumors and not much else."

Irelia nodded. "I thought as much. Would you like a rundown?"

Riven's eyes scanned the board. "Yes. I think that would be wise."

Irelia summoned a miniature version of the map, large enough to see explicit detail but small enough that she didn't need to reach to touch all corners.

"Then we shall begin."

 **ooooo**

You know how the war started, I presume? How Noxus attacked at the dead of night?

 _"_ _Yes. I know all about how it started."_

We were not expecting it. No one was expecting it. The assault was completely unwarranted, the ferocity of which they attacked was shocking. We could not fight back because for several days, most of us did not even know a fight existed. When the news reached everyone that we were at war, many did not believe it. How could they? What did we ever do to deserve the full-fledged might of Noxus? To this day, we still do not know their intentions, only that they do not wish to take prisoners unless they can work. I apologize if I incorrectly relay some of the early war timeline to you; I was only ten years old, then, and at that time I had not even considered joining the resistance.

 _Riven frowned. "That leaves you at around twenty-two."_

It does indeed. We will get to that later. For now, focus on the map.

On the first night, they took the Galrin province first-

 _Irelia pointed to the southernmost island._

-And just after that, the Shon-Xan province.

 _Irelia pointed to the easternmost island that floated a little higher than Galrin._

 _"_ _Actually, it was the other way around. Shon-Xan, then Galrin."_

Pardon?

 _Riven traced her finger in the water. "We figured if you were expecting an attack, you'd be expecting us to go after the southernmost island, Galrin, first. So we decided to come in from the other way, the east, to surprise you."_

Alright, then. Whatever island was taken first, the province of Navori-

 _She pointed to a southern beach area on the main island._

-Was taken simultaneously. The Elders of all three provinces were assassinated, leaving the provinces without a single organizer. The Noxian forces met almost no resistance on all previously mentioned territories, and what little they did meet were slaughtered along with almost all the villagers. Concentration camps were set up here, here, and here. Over all twelve years, not one person has escaped from any of these, so we can only assume the severity.

 _"_ _Its Noxus. What do you expect? Warm milk and cookies? No. If you've yet to know of a single soul that escaped, they're likely extermination camps."_

That is what I worried. _Sigh._

In the same night that they took the others, Noxus tried to take this one, Zhyun-

 _Irelia pointed at an area just above Novri. The lines of the front bisected this province: everything southward belonged to Noxus and everything northward belonged to Ionia._

However, by the time Noxian forces reached Zhyun, we knew we were under attack. Our forces met theirs, and since then, the line has remained static. In twelve years, neither side has moved far enough in any direction to be considered major. Needless to say, Zhyun is No-Man's land. They say the bodies pile so high that from a distance, they are often mistaken for hills.

 _"_ _So we're at a stalemate."_

Precisely.

"How are the seas?"

Not good. Do you see this ring?

 _She traced the black ring circumnavigating the entire island._

This a naval blockade. We have had more success on this front than others, mainly because Ionia is an island, so we have more experience in the water than Noxus. At the moment though, things are grim; Noxus recently enlisted the help of Bilgewater pirates, and since then, we have lost land as fast as we are losing troops.

 _A silence._

 _"_ _That does sound pretty grim."_

Yes, it does.

 _More silence between them. Obnoxious bellowing reached them both, and the table vibrated as someone slammed there fist upon the tabletop._

 _"…"_

 _"_ _What needs to happen to ensure an Ionian victory?"_

 _Irelia eyed her. She looked around, catching Karma's attention. The women shared a look, then Irelia returned her focus to the map._

Many things. Almost too many to count.

 _"_ _What kind of things?"_

Would you like the whole picture?

 _"_ _I want the nitty gritty. What exactly needs to happen for Ionia to win this war?"_

 _"…"_

 _Irelia pointed at the mesh of blue and black running through Zhyun._

We need all of the mainland. There is an armory in Zhyun, the Kashuri Armory, that was vital to our holding the line steady. We lost it to Noxus only a year after I came into power. This armory is not very far behind the front line, but it is a veritable fortress. We have tried sending in groups of our elite, but without the backing of the main force, they have faced defeat every time. However, we have a unit on standby that claims that they can recapture it, but only if they are supported by the front line. You know? The line that hasn't moved for twelve years?

 _"_ _Then what needs to happen to move the front line farther southward?"_

Noxus possesses strength in numbers and brutality. Ionia possesses less troops, but Ionia is the birthplace of many martial arts; one Ionian is as skilled as three Noxians. Unfortunately, the ratio of us to them is just that, so there is very little we can do there. The Demacians have offered their aid time and time again, but this cursed blockade has halted all water routes to and from Ionia. Fortunately, we have always been self-sufficient, but we cannot call for backup. While Noxus can replenish their supplies at any time they please by simply plundering ships, we have barely scraped by these last six years, and I fear that if this continues, we will run out people to fight and food to eat. We _desperately_ need this aid; if we do not receive it, we will be crushed in the coming months.

 _Riven nodded slowly, ruminating over something. "I think I can fix that."_

And how do you propose this?

 _"_ _You said Noxus was recruiting pirates? I have… contacts that can help sway them to your side."_

I prefer not to work with pirates.

 _"_ _Do you want to win?"_

Fair point.

 _"_ _This obviously isn't the only thing holding you back."_

No, it isn't.

As I said before, Noxus holds the advantage of numbers while we hold the advantage of skill. We have proven to be the masters of guerrilla warfare over the years, but the issue with our style of fighting is that it is not effective when the enemy simply carpet-bombs our hiding places.

This brings us to the Behemoths. These machines of death are gifts from Zaun, Noxus' longtime brother-in-arms. They are of a most complex design: a balloon filled with helium by some convoluted contraption that our engineers have yet to crack that floats over our defenses and releases their bioweaponry. The effects they cause… are terrible to say the least. There usually isn't a body to bury. Noxus possesses tons of these Behemoths, and they unleash their horrible fury upon even their own soldiers. Their apathy sickens me to the core.

These need to be destroyed. We lose every battle that they appear in, and it is a miracle that they have not yet attempted to fly deeper into Ionian-controlled territory: we possess no weapon to counteract theirs.

 _"_ _This all useful information, but when I asked for the nitty gritty, I was thinking more along the lines of… people of interest. Something I can actually do something about."_

You do not strike me as an assassin.

 _"_ _I'm not. But I realize something needs to be done."_

 _Irelia nodded wordlessly in agreement. She glanced around the table, but the Elders were absorbed in their own verbal battles, pulling lines to and fro and explaining why Ionia was doomed. Still, she scooted closer to Riven so that no one else could overhear their conversation, an action that drew Karma's attention from the other side of the table._

Noxus is not the brutish nation of simple-minded fools we thought they were; as it turns out, the simple-minded fools are herded by a body of cunningly intelligent strategists and specialists. They possess a tactical mastery that extends far beyond our own, and though no one here will admit it, that is the main reason we are losing this war. We can match Noxus' ferocity and spirit, but we cannot match their cleverness or raw experience regarding war.

 _Irelia pointed to a very specific point on the line in Zhyun._

For the past year, this location has seen more action than all of Ionia. The area was once a jungle, but now after years of shed blood and being bombarded by chemical weaponry, the area has become a dense swamp where monsters attracted by the chaos lay. Our scouts have reported sightings of The Grand General.

 _"_ _Darius is still kicking, huh? He was the general back when I was still part of Noxus' army."_

As of now, he is our acting priority target. He is the reason Noxus never surrenders. He has pledged to cut down all deserters, traitors, Ionians, and anyone in between. Soldiers fight ten times as hard when he leads them into the fray, and so far, he has yet to be defeated. He is deceptively clever and fast; none that we have sent after him ever return.

Darius does not act alone; his brother, Draven, does not share the smarts or the focus Darius holds, but he does share the capacity for violence. Where Darius goes, Draven is sure to be slinking somewhere nearby. Our scouts have profiled him as "narcissist and cocky, but damn me if can't back up the bragging." He seems to love glory more than the war, as he has returned to Noxus to bask in the adoration of his fans for the time being.

 _"_ _There's not much I can do about that."_

Perhaps the most frustrating of all is a pair of assassins that have plagued us since the beginning of the war. Besides their genders- a tall, cloaked male and a shorter woman with scarlet hair- we know next to nothing about them, save that not even locked doors and scores of guards can keep them from their targets. The front lines do not contain them; they have killed as far north as the Ecrin province. We have lost many of our brightest to this duo, and we know not a damn thing about them.

 _"_ _I think I snagged one of them when I dealt with the rest of the Elite. Did the woman prefer throwing knives?"_

Both, actually.

 _"_ _Then I'm pretty sure I tagged one of them."_

Good. They were more than just a casual nuisance.

The next man's location we do not know. He could be hiding under the protection of Noxus, Zaun, or even here for all we know. The man is illusive, only showing his warped face on the odd occasion he wishes to witness his work. We do not know his name, but we know one of his monikers: The Singed.

 _Riven bristled, the first emotion other than uncompromising determination that irelia had seen from the woman since they had met._

 _"_ _Yeah. I know of him. He's the man responsible for turning your island into a glowing wasteland, right?"_

That is correct. He must be brought to justice; his creations defy all morality and pervert all of humanity with its ghastly power to kill.

 _"_ _Oh, I'll bring him to justice all right…"_

 _Irelia ignored the comment and pointed towards the main continent, at Noxus._

But the real target lies in the heart of Noxus, the master tactician that coordinated the deaths of so many of my people. It is impossible for me to explain how imperative it is to deal with Jericho Swain: not only does he possess an uncanny understanding of the battlefield and war economics, thus key to Noxus' success, but even if we win _this_ war, the time it would take to fully recover would be unimaginable. Swain knows this. As soon as the first war ends and the "treaties" are signed, he will break them, and then he will break us. There is a chance we can limp away from this once, but we cannot survive another extended conflict in the state we are in. If there is one person that must fall from power to ensure that Ionia will still exist, it is Jericho Swain.

If my memory does not fail me, that should be the end of the rogues gallery. There are few more prominent names, a few more quirks that trouble us, but they are manageable. Those are the "people of interest," if you will.

 **ooooo**

Riven was completely quiet, examining the map and trailing her fingers over contours and lines, imagining different scenarios and their outcomes. She considered the Ionians' plights, the names that needed crossing out, and the probability that one person could have such a large impact. She required a plan of attack now that she held the essential information, but here around this crowded table in a loud, unfamiliar room was not the time or the place.

"I'm going to need a list."

Irelia looked to her with squinted eyes, determining the sincerity of what she offered. "We have hunted these people for twelve years. What do you expect to do that we haven't already tried?"

That was a good point. A very good point in fact; Riven could swing a blade like no other, but this operation required finesse, not a body-count. Whatever scheme she concocted would take time. Time that she would never regain. Time that could be spent happily snuggling by Fiora in front of fire.

And that was ultimately what determined her course of action. She realized with a jolt that because of her, many no longer had a sweetheart to hug and kiss them when they returned from battle. She couldn't just hop in her boat and sail the seas back home to her lover when so many people had lost their loved ones, their homes, their lives because of something that didn't involve them. She felt selfish; of course she would stay and pitch in for as long as she could bear; or rather, as long as Fiora could bear.

"I'm going to speak in hypothetical terms for a moment. Stay with me, will you?"

Irelia nodded her consent.

"Say, hypothetically, I manage to remove Darius from the equation."

"The front lines would soften. We could even possibly retake the armory," Irelia pondered.

"Say, hypothetically, I manage to do the same for Draven."

"Draven is a hero of Noxus. If both The Grand General and his distinguished brother were to fall, morale within the ranks of Noxian troops would surely plummet."

"And if, hypothetically, I were to hunt down the last assassin."

"Our Elders could breathe easy knowing a bullseye was no longer pinned to the rear of their skulls."

"What about The Singed? Hypothetically."

"This is a large undertaking for a single woman. Hypothetically."

"Most certainly. But so were the Crimson Elite."

"Hmm." Irelia was beginning to catch on, an amused grin shadowing the edges of her lips. "If The Singed were to meet an untimely end, one of the masterminds behind the suffering of hundreds of thousands could scheme no more. The Ionian people would begin to regain hope. Hypothetically."

"And if I somehow, hypothetically managed to simultaneously destroy, or at least find a copy of the blueprints of the Behemoths."

"Why, I believe we could recapture the mainland if that were the case."

"And if the blockade were somehow lifted; what would hypothetically happen then?"

"Then the Demacians would lend us some much-needed supplies, and our involuntary embargo with all nations would be lifted. Businesses would thrive once again."

"And if, by some amazing circumstance, I managed to topple Jericho Swain from his throne?"

"Hypothetically?"

"Hypothetically, of course."

"Then hypothetically, Ionia would win the war."

A silence as the giddiness of fantasy gradually melted away until only the austere skeleton of reality remained. Irelia sighed, rolling her neck, the exhaustion of fighting a losing battle peeking through the seams of what otherwise seemed an indomitable, capable woman.

"I do not mean to offend you, but at the end of the day, you are just one woman. As time travels on, I have begun to wonder if even a god could resolve this conflict."

Riven slumped in defeat, cognizance of the silliness of it all weighing her down. "There's nothing to be sorry for. It was extremely unlikely anyways."

"I believe that is why it is all hypothetical, is it not?" Karma's deep voice spooked both of them, and they twisted to face the sagacious woman who stood with her hands clasped in front of her.

"I guess so," Irelia admitted.

"Do not lose hope, not when we near the end."

"Are you so certain we will lose that you think the end is near?" Irelia spat sourly.

"Are you? From the way you speak, you seem to have lost hope in our cause."

Irelia threw her hands up in exasperation. "Hope can only get us so far, Karma."

"But we have come this far on hope, young Irelia. Why would we give up on it now?" Irelia shook her head in frustration and looked at the ceiling instead of her elder. "When I stated that the end is near, I did not mean the end of _us_."

"Oh? Then what did you mean?" Irelia questioned, incredulous.

"This conflict will end soon. We are approaching a breaking point, and we must decide what will happen, and what will come of it."

"That 'breaking point' you speak of is our _demise!_ " Irelia shouted just a little too loud. Now the entire congregation of Elders were listening intently, but Irelia couldn't care.

"Perhaps." Irelia snorted. "But what if it is not? What if that breaking point ends with us as the victors? Would you give up now, and relinquish all chance of success to fate?"

Irelia grumbled.

"I cannot hear you, young Irelia."

"No, I would not."

"Then we must not give up hope." Karma fixed her attention onto Riven. "These hypotheses. How realistic are they?"

"Realistically?" Riven mulled the question over. "I don't have a clue."

"But we never know until try, now do we?" Karma asked theoretically.

Riven shook her head. "No. No, you don't get it. I don't know if I even want to try."

"Why not?" This time, Irelia pitched in, a little angry that her last-ditch effort might be backing out.

Fiora came to mind, all of her lithe beauty, all of her sweet, rosy scent, all of her love. "Because I have everything to lose."

Confused, Karma gestured to everyone. "But darling, we all do. Look at every single person in this room: do you think we are here because we enjoy staring at maps and making decisions I would not wish upon my worst enemy? We are here because we have families. We are here because we do not wish to see them perish. We are here because we have no choice."

"But I do have a choice."

"Do you?" Karma countered knowingly.

No. No, Riven did not have a choice. She wouldn't _let_ herself have a choice. She didn't answer, though.

"We need you. Whether or not you agree, we need you now. Will you help us?" karma pleaded. "In our darkest hour, will you lend us your sword and your wit?"

Fiora flashed in front of her vision again, but this time tears stained her porcelain cheeks, hair riled from neglect, icy eyes sad and alone. "But what if I die?" It came out smaller than she intended. "What if we lose and I never get to go home?"

"The answer is simple: don't lose."

"But what if-?"

"You cannot think of that, of death and of loss. We have no time for that now. We have no time to lose. Had the odds been different, this conversation would be different. Had we not teetered so close to the edge, I would understand your worry. But we _are_ so close to the edge. And the simple fact, darling, is that dying is not an option. Not anymore."

Riven stared at the floor for the longest time, weighing what Karma said with what she personally believed. The Elders stared tensely at Riven, some with hope and others with disdain.

Perhaps dying really wasn't an option?

A long sigh.

Riven looked up, stared straight into Karma's eyes, and nodded.

"Okay."

"Then welcome aboard."

Riven looked over to Irelia. "I'm going to need that list."


	28. Chapter 27- The Hand of Noxus

**Woo, another chapter! Thanks everyone for all of the support! Enjoy! Edit: Just grammar and stuff**

There is a place between war and murder where our demons lurk.

This wasn't something Riven believed; this was something Riven knew for a fact, something she had personally witnessed, personally experienced for herself. She had seen death and its three disciples, encountered all four at some time or another. She had met the endless agony that spawns from the barbarous cruelty of war, tasted the bitterness of the impartial discrimination that traveled in its wake. She had gaped upon hundreds upon thousands wasting away from tangible pestilence, struggled through its alternate abstract sickness that afflicted the mind and reduced soldiers and citizens to anxious, suspicious husks of their former selves. She had cringed upon the gaunt, walking skeletons touched by famine, nearly fallen into coma in its pining, desperate caress when she had miscalculated distance, when game was scarcer than hope.

She had waded through them all, and though her weary feet carried her across the land of the living, she had not emerged without her own demons, without the leeches clinging to her skin that skulked just below the surface of the pond where scum floated in bloody clusters.

Distrust had been the first. The type that builds walls so high around her soul that even she couldn't leave if she so chose to. The type that runs so deep that not even her own self could be relied upon. The type that estranged her from everyone for so long.

Anger had been the second. Anger at her homeland for the atrocities, for how far gone Noxus had allowed itself to fall, for coercing her with its silvery tongue to commit the unthinkable. Anger at herself for sanctioning the use of her person like a pathetic marionette that only knew one dance: kill.

Indifference had been the third. The kind that poisoned her heart with nothing, the kind that sucked every last drop of empathy from her being with fangs that hurt so much with dead apathy. The kind that plugged her ears with waxy disdain whenever the harrowing harmony of pleas for help reached her across whole plains of exhausting detachment.

The fourth and final of Riven's hellions was Survival. She had not thought that survival would be so wicked a punishment until she tried it on herself. She was still alive; what was bad about that? It turned out many things were bad about that. Survival degraded her until only the most basic of actions could be performed: eat, drink, sleep, and fight. There was no room for emotion or happiness or content satisfaction; there was only survival. Survival erased her morals, her principles, left only hatred for anything that dared step between her and life. But worst of all, survival kept her alive only to live under the full weight of everything, of a life composed only of distrust, anger, and indifference. Survival did not allow her to embrace the sweet mercy of death where all her demons would vanish into a pleasant nothingness; survival put breath in her lungs and expired vitality into her soul solely so that she may be tormented eternally.

Riven had escaped these some time ago with the warm aid of friends and lovers.

But now, they were resurrected. By herself, so that she may walk away from this ordeal with as few new scars as possible. Because over the course of her lifetime, she had been taught something by a monk who had capitalized upon his blindness, by a Samurai who had dwelled in the ashes of his fallen home to disguise his position, by a woman who had turned her family's dishonored name into an excuse to train her blade until she could cut down anyone in a duel. Riven had learned that an insurmountable weakness can be twisted and indoctrinated into an insurmountable strength.

So Riven would welcome Distrust with open arms, so that no one would ever come close enough to stab her in the back.

She would channel Anger so that she would never again be recklessly mangled into another's bidding like a puppet, would never forget her ultimate ambition, would never foolishly forgive those that did not deserve to be forgiven.

She would accept Indifference to save herself the mental misery of woe and the remorse that clouded all future judgment, to do only what needs to be done so that she may step away before she was guilt-tripped into solving another's sorrows.

She would Survive. She would do whatever it takes to Survive, to return home safe and sound, to accompany her Fiora until their days ended naturally rather than at the point of a blade.

Like the pieces of the armor that had disintegrated under another man's inhumanity, they protected her from harm. But these pieces would not melt under anything, enforced by her convictions, laced with determination.

This was just a simple job, no more different than the contracts on wyverns she fulfilled when she wandered the Sablestones on the continent.

 **ooooo**

The last time Riven had traipsed through battlegrounds was years ago when she had stumbled upon the old sparring grounds between Noxus and Demacia. There was an odd tranquility then, a gentle wind from the South, as if Runeterra was sighing in relief that the conflict no longer marred her earth.

Here was a different story.

Zhyum was once beautiful, a flat plain of gentle grass cut with nets of clear, trickling streams with not a tree in sight, the gradual ascension of jagged ground ramping up towards the sky to create the Targon Mountains to the southeast, a tangle of jungle vines to the far north and northeast. A breeze once blew, soft and accepting, and the sun once basked the field with benign rays. But this was long ago.

Zhyum was a graveyard now. Polluted clouds restrained the sun's amicable intentions, casting gloom upon everything. Vibrancy was drained from everything, from the grass until it yellowed and blanded, from the stone mountains to the southeast until they were cold and dead, from the jungle to the far north and northwest until all that was luscious was austere. Tombstones were the pikes and halberds stained with crusty brown spearing the sky, were the cross-guards and hilts of swords whose blades stabbed straight down into Ionia, were the valiant blues and raven blacks of the feathers of arrows that punctured Runeterra, were the mournful flags abandoned by all, abandoned by the gods.

There were bodies. There were so many bodies. For as many square feet as there was a clear patch of earth, ten times more was area obscured by tiers of bodies. Some were tall, some were short. Some were men, some were woman, too many were children. Some were clad in noble Ionian battle wear, some were clad in crude Noxian plate; all wore tremendous gashes or ragged holes or savage, charred flesh or one or more less limbs. Corpses on the crust, on the top layer, were fresh. They still bled and bubbled and stared at the unsympathetic heavens, still had skin that did not tear easily when tread upon.

As the layers approached the bottom, however, the level of decay grew. Skin and bone were soft and mushy with all the absorbed liquids of the bodies above, flesh tearing off in chunks, marrow cracking under the weight, organs spilling from stomachs, until-.

If Riven did not watch her step, her foot would plunge through remains until they crunched upon skulls and skeletons that were laid to rest twelve years ago. She glanced a few of them, the skulls, grinning at her in death from between chasms of bodies, taunting her with dreadful silence, teasing, ' _You're next_.'

And the smell. It was the smell of war: of rotting flesh and scorching fires, of the excrement of the fearful, of the loss of innocence. To most, the stench was so horrid, so paralyzing that they wrapped their faces in cloth to quench the fumes; some cadavers still wore them, ironically contributing to the stench they hated.

Riven was used to the smell. Her brief time in the military had not granted her immunity, for her time serving under murderers was short yet not short enough. It was her time with Yi, with Icharou, toiling under the sun and laying corpses rightfully to rest where they belonged that had nullified the odor. Now, all she smelled were the tracks of her prey scattered carelessly.

Her horse, strong, dark, and lean like her, snorted fretfully, and she rested a soothing palm on his neck rippling with muscles. He did not calm completely, but he relaxed enough that Riven no longer worried about being bucked off and into the human stew below her.

She peered outward, blood-red eyes scanning for clues of inhabitance, for the columns of choking smoke or the crackling orange of campfires, for movement on the dreary horizon, for voices, for the clang of steel, for signs of life.

She saw no campfires, only the consuming blaze of mass graves. She glimpsed no movement among the hordes of the deceased. She heard no voices, no cacophonies of battle. She saw no signs of life whatsoever.

All was quiet.

All was so, so quiet, so tense, like all the bodies in the dirt were all simultaneously holding their breaths, like the eerie silence that always preceded tsunamis and tornadoes and earthquakes. Not even the freezing wind that slowly battered banners could be heard.

It was not safe here. Her instinct told her this and a million more, about the shadows that flitted across the quilt of clouds, about the monstrosities that would feast under nightfall's blanket, about that peculiar, soul-chilling bellow that was not-so-far away.

She shivered, the cold and the uncertainty of her safety nipping at her flesh and penetrating through the thick, rawhide cloak wrapped around her. She needed to move.

Darius would fall first, she had decided. Of all the soldiers, the tacticians, the machines of war, Darius need to be dealt with. It was he who had killed so many Ionian heroes. It was he who had organized strikes, controlled the front line, lead his troops until the last man died and he would step up and finish off the rest. It was he who decided when to rain Zaunite glory on the Ionian heathens, disregarding friendly casualties.

Irelia's informants were incorrect; the jungle did not shelter the Noxian army. It was, however, extremely dangerous; booby traps of vile and cunning nature were almost in more supply than there were trees. Riven was not surprised to see that the Ionian scouts had misread the situation: with as many lives as the jungle's traps had claimed, one would think a small army hunkered there.

No, Noxus did not conceal themselves in the greenery of the jungle. They camped much farther south, and much higher.

Riven could spy the incandescent twinkling of fires pocking the mountain tops and the valleys so densely that a smoldering blanket dotted with embers appeared to have been draped over the peaks. The location was genius really: their position was easily defensible, the plateaus serving as excellent landing strips for Behemoths. If the Ionians were to mount an offensive, they would be slaughtered with a rain of arrows and, if Noxus' reputation still held truth, molten rivers of toxic green spewing down the mountainside like some volcano perverted by mad science.

Riven had scoured the graveyards with hopes to discover the General on his way to seize land in another ensured victory, but there was no such luck. If she were to find the man anywhere, it would be at the top of that mountain.

Riven spurred her horse lightly, guiding her mare around mangled piles and through paths quite literally cut through the bodies. Through streams broiling with chemicals and inky with blood and scorch. Across clearings "purified" by bioweapons, the ground charred and crunching beneath hoof prints. Dodging through the pikes and the spears and the arrows that wounded Ionia.

If Riven could kill Darius, a necropolis like this might never exist again.

With that thought in mind as she cleared the worst of the apocalypse, Riven galloped straight and steady toward the hive.

 **ooooo**

Even at night, the encampments were buzzing alive and alert.

Clusters of checkpoints sprawled all across the mountainside, sentries looming in the darkness, sizzling campfires' shivering light gleaming against the faces of polished weaponry held at the ready. A spider web of patrol routes intersected here, the soldiers' fitful flames held aloft by torches that bobbed vigilantly with every step across uneven terrain.

There was little cover to shield Riven's approach, but there was some, and she made the best use out of sparse collections of weathered rock, alcoves carved from wind, and scraggly bushes barely living in such a harsh environment.

Up she traveled through dips in the paths worn by years of an army's worth of feet, through ditches on the sides of the paths leading upward.

As she neared the summit, defenses increased, more metallic thuds passing by as the night watchmen tromped about, searching for the intruders.

Up she stealthed around groups of burly men and few women, leaping up sheer walls and scrabbling for purchase as she shimmied on ledges that dropped from fatal heights.

And then, Riven arrived.

The beef of the camp resided just below the peak on a wide, relatively even plateau that overlooked the battlefields. Colossal bulwarks glared malevolently down on all entrances, archers stowed away behind the parapets and peeking through slots cut in the obsidian stone. The Noxian crest dangled proudly in the cold, tickling the spiked reinforcements that jutted outward from the floor, protecting the walls from being scaled by anyone stupid enough to sneak into a fortified base of operations.

However, Riven was not just anyone; as the cavalry stationed at the gates sauntered away, she darted from her crevice and sprinted with the wind carrying her, lengthening her strides, suppressing her footsteps, and, when she arrived at the wall, blasted her skyward.

The banner's insignia clutched in her grasp, she glanced over her shoulder. The guard below was none the wiser, never throwing so much as a glimpse above. Another leap sent her soaring up, up, and over the heads of the archers, and after a few moments air time, she landed silently on the other side.

Riven resumed the advance, ducking into the alleyways between ebony tents where soldiers snored, smuggling herself behind nooks and crannies. She slithered over earthen ground, slinked in the blackness that abounded behind reeking stables, aspiring watchtowers, and siege weapons parked in orderly grids. She crouched behind crates and circumnavigated entire battalions of Noxus' military, scarlet irises inspecting everything, everyone for Darius, but she could not find him.

There. A flash of a man too large to exist, an axe as nefarious as the man carrying it.

Darius.

He was walking away now, conversing with someone comically smaller than himself. As Riven neared, scampering between the shrouds of blackness, she realized that he had been planning a surprise attack; he was preparing for it as she hunted him through the labyrinth, discussing the fine print with a subordinate.

Riven was wary of opportunities as they walked, but the man had amassed a following so large along his brief trek through the pathways that Riven's efforts at remaining undetected were almost spoiled with every step she took.

Then, just as he was disappearing into the throng, Riven chanced her whole operation. Her hood snugly pulled over her head so as to mask her face, her cloak wound securely around her torso to shield her weapon from view- her Runic Windblade was a sight to remember in the worst of times- Riven plunged headfirst into the deluge of Darius' repulsively odorous disciples brimming with violent vigor and chanting war cries, blatant racism under the guise of clever idioms, and callings for blood and for sacrifice.

No one noticed her enter the stream, and she casually slipped between brawny shoulders as she paddled with the current to keep up.

From her cloak, she watched over an ocean of enthusiastic cheering the rear of Darius' head, noting that their course was set for the main square. They spilled from every entryway into open grounds, frothing and breaking against the border of canvases as patrons surged until every last corner, every seat creaking under hundreds of pounds of soldiers was full.

Riven expected Darius to leap onto a table and rally the troops with a speech that would stir the bloodthirstiness until it congested into a thick, unwavering film on the surface, but he did not. He exited just as soon as he had entered, and whether the way his subordinates cleared a path as he walked was born from high esteem or a fear of tasting that wicked axe, Riven would never know. No one offered her the same respect, though, and she resigned to tenaciously shoving through the excited congregation of bodies.

Darius ambled alone but he still prowled with purpose, taking the most direct route to an unknown destination while Riven stalked him.

She was so close; all she required was a bit of silence and a lonely alley where she could confront him.

But as their proximity lessened and the tension inversely heightened, they were suddenly in public again, and Riven sedated her pace for a short moment to draw some space between them.

And then they were there. The General's quarters.

This area was surprisingly permanent compared to the pitched tents dispersed behind her, a miniature fortress impending before her. Slabs of stone as dark as the night composed gargantuan ramparts punctuated at each of the four corners by steeples concealing snipers, a massive oaken set of double doors whose knockers resembled skulls looming just ahead of them. There were plenty standing guard outside, and they saluted as Darius approached, pushed through the wooden tyrants, and disappeared inside.

Riven stepped forth, nonchalant in her advance, catching little attention.

Until she kept stepping, that is.

"Where do you think you're going?" One of them barked just before Riven shoved two of them to the ground to make way, and rushed to the door.

A cry for aid, a warning of an intruder, and just as Riven vanished behind the door, she could hear reinforcements dash after her. She slammed the door, barely holding them shut while she searched for any means to block it off.

She found them in the swiveling metal bar that would secure the entrance for siege, and she darted over, frantically slamming the bar shut. She pivoted.

The inner courtyard was very utilitarian, with straw training dummies posed with faux swords next to a line of bullseyes uniformly stuck with arrows directly on or a fraction of an inch around the center target. There were racks of swords and spears and axes fringing an open area designed for sparring, the Noxian ensign inscribed upon flags and the like.

And across the earthen courtyard, Darius stood unamused upon steps leading to another set of smaller, more welcoming doors.

The man was huge, at least a head and a half above Riven, with pure muscle for arms bared below a set of pauldrons viciously spiked and sitting square upon square shoulders. A thick body armor tailored to shift and torque with his torso encased his body with a dull grey iron, a cape of scarlet red identical to his squinty, furrowed eyes drifting in the breeze. Like the fortress' interior, his armor and gait was pragmatic, save his weapon.

Riven had been warned about that axe. It had stolen a great many lives with its glinting edge so villainously sharp it seemed to sing even in the miniscule motions as it dipped and rose upon his shoulders that heaved with every breath. A vampire's fleshless face grinned diabolically at the junction between the scintillating axe head and the hook for reeling in victims, and Riven knew from reports from Ionian spies that one hit from the weapon would be all that was required to kill; for the axe, like all Noxian officers' weapons were, as was custom for the Noxian military, was enchanted. A wound made from that blade would never heal naturally; an evil, soulless magic removed the body's ability to clot cuts, and thus the gashes scored would bleed forever.

Darius was not alone, either. They were not the unskilled, bumbling idiots of low rank, but sported quality gear, arms, and medals engraved into hardened steel. There were archers above, too, arrows nocked but bowstrings undrawn in the presence of such a small threat.

"And who might you be?" Darius queried, totally unworried and at rest.

Riven unclasped the cloak, removed the hood, and tossed the leathers onto an empty stand to save it from the contamination of dirt.

To her surprise, Darius recognized her immediately, a cross between a satisfied smirk and curiosity.

"Riven. Katarina's old flame."

"' _Old flame_ '?" Riven spluttered, appalled.

"You were her pet project, were you not?" Darius asked.

"I suppose so," Riven stumbled.

An inquiring look passed across his rugged mug. "I see the feelings weren't mutual, then?"

" _Hell no_."

"Hmph." Then, another inquisitive expression. "Reports say you were part of the casualties of the Couer Valley battle."

"I was, thanks to you."

Darius shrugged off the hostility, adopting a high-and-mighty demeanor. "Casualties are part of war. You should've known this."

"You're justifying killing your own men? For what? Victory?" Riven's gaze washed around the scarred individuals, noting the multitude of notches, lacerations, and gouges. Sarcastically, "That seems to be going well."

Darius snarled. "We do what we have to to win! And if that costs the lives of a few valorous Noxians, then so be it."

Riven shook her head disapprovingly. "That sounds like an excuse to me."

He became furious in an instant, axe clutched boldly in his meaty fists as he stepped forward to deliver, "And who is winning now, Riven?! Who is slaughtered by the thousands with every battle? Who stands on the verge of defeat after all this time?"

Riven didn't answer, a chilly silence seizing everyone.

"The problem with you _Ionians_ \- I expect you've defected? That's why you're here? To kill me?- you weaken yourselves, staunch your potential with _mercy_. As if mercy could win wars!"

Darius spread his arms wide, gesturing to the world, booming, "And how is mercy going for you, _hmm?_ How many conflicts have you Ionians solved with words? With _kindness_ and _respect_? With _pity_ and _empathy_? You are weakened by your own consciences, and that is why we- _we_ are winning, not you!"

He pointed to Riven with the blade of his axe. "This is the _real world_ , Riven! This is not some Ionian _fairytale_ where the mice make peace with the birds of prey, where Mother Nature halts its annual freezing so a single mole can burrow into its hole! This is a world where only the strong survive and prosper."

"This is us," Darius shouted, throaty voice surely carrying for miles as he pounded his chest twice, "or them!" he jabbed his axe to the north. "And Riven, I guarantee you it will _not_ be _us_!"

"There is no room for _mercy_ between life and death. That-" Darius pointed at Riven again, " _that_ is why Noxus will reign supreme. That is why its soldiers are deaf to your pleading cries. That is why we will _win_."

"Now tell me something, brave, _noble_ Riven: can you say the same?"

No, she could not.

He sneered.

"Kill her," and he turned to walk away.

Two guards encroached upon her, low and ready to kill.

They struck in the same instant, sabers stabbing for her relentlessly.

She had just drawn her weapon, and as the blades approached, she batted the left into the right and they skewed off center. A roundhouse flowing from the same move collided her shin into the left man's helm, and his head ricocheted to knock into the right's. Both men crumpled, unconscious, and the others became aware of the danger she possessed.

She deflected an arrow, the body splintering and bouncing from her blade, and two more guards approached. The right lead the first into combat, and before he could strike, Riven stepped close and sent her foot into his abdomen, knocking him flat on his ass.

The second rushed her without warning, but even then, she easily leaned to the left side to dodge his diagonal swipe.

She could kill him easily now; he'd overextended, and now his entire right flank was exposed.

But she did not, could not. He was her brother, in a way. Just another brainwashed soldier who did not deserve to die for such a barbarous country.

She removed him from the equation with a left hook that dropped him flat.

Darius was watching with interest now, Riven could see past a group of Noxians.

She blocked two more arrows on her way to a group of three.

One of them circled around left while the other two assaulted from the front. Again, they attacked simultaneously, a swipe at her throat from the left intended to for her to dodge backward so that the right could send his sword through her gut during the awkward recovery. She raised her blade and blocked the swipe before slashing downward immediately to intercept the blade plunging at her stomach.

She had a chance to kill them both here, their weapons thrown away from their torsos, but again, she hesitated to strike a fatal blow. She would not let herself slay her comrades, slay people with wives and children and homes who all thought they were doing the right thing.

Her falter cost her dearly; the cold steel of a dagger thrusted up and under her ribcage on her left flank, freezing her with the revelation that she had just been stabbed. Out on reflex, she threw a left elbow in the vague direction of where his head should be, and out of luck her elbow collided with his jaw. When he fainted, his grip held fast, and her blue, phosphorescent hand immediately replaced the knife as it was ripped from her flank, her hot blood spattering her clothes and the ground.

She shook off shock; she had been stabbed before, but she had never completely forgotten that she was battling three opponents, not two.

And then an arrowhead punched into her abdomen while she was ruminating over her mistake.

Riven's desperate gaze glanced upward, and she spied the second arrow with enough distance between them that she could cut it away midflight.

Footsteps in front of her, a blade slicing air, and she was almost gored by a saber sweeping toward her abdomen. She hopped backward, glazed gaze focusing on the band of Noxians descending upon her.

As the first man to strike swung at her neck, she parried so it passed over her head and riposted with a fist to his face that knocked him out clean. The other three spread out as more trickled into the fray, surrounding her.

She yearned to leap from the center, but they kept the heat pressed heavily on her uncertain shoulders and she was forced into acting like one of those training dummies leering from the sidelines, blocking and parrying and dodging as fast as her arms and feet could move her until she couldn't take it anymore and bounded from the center.

She suppressed more pain as more frosty steel slashed her right calve, lanced shallowly down her spine, and she landed on unsteady feet.

Wild and involuntarily charged with adrenaline, she glared at the mob repositioning, seeking opportunities, wholly focused on her disadvantages.

Another arrow burrowed into her right shoulder, and she remembered the archers. An onslaught of black, Noxian rain hurtled toward her, and she parried them all, but now she was totally focused on the snipers hemming the walls.

Out her periphery, a saber sailed toward her, and she knocked it away with a resounding clatter, but she could not see the arrow that lodged into her left calf. She did not fall, but perhaps that was for the worst; the collective guards rushed her, and in her moment of panic, she irrationally engaged them all.

There were just too many blades to be countered, too many spears to be dodged, too many halberds to be halted, so it was bound to happen. A stray sword from a stray swordsman that did not particularly stand out from the others in terms of dexterity and talent, but that did not matter when there were seven or eight more blades distracting what needed killing.

The tip lodged two inches below Riven's heart, and in the exact moment metal raided the inner workings of her body, the electrifying realization that poisoned the blade entered her bloodstream, shocked her system, opened her eyes to reality.

As she unstuck herself and clumsily stumbled away, she fixed her waning gaze upon the onlooker.

Darius was right.

This was the real world, not a fantasy conjured by elders around warm campfires to convince the youth that goodness prevailed. This was war; people died every day in droves, and there was not a thing Riven could do to save them all.

But she could save some.

Darius was right.

She plucked the arrow from her calf.

She could not continue under her current modus operandi. She could not spare them all if she wished to accomplish her objective, if she wished to simply _stay alive_. She could not grant them all sweet dreams, could not continue to pull her punches if she were to escape.

Darius was right.

She ripped the arrow from her abdomen.

Riven's vision of mercy was flawed. She had thought it a purely generous action, so humane and magnanimous an ideal that nothing about it could be controversial. But this was the real world: few things were so simple, so intuitive. This mercy, _her_ mercy, she could not afford. So she would not give Noxus anymore of _her_ mercy.

Darius was _right_.

She jerked the arrow from her shoulder.

Mercy, Riven saw now, was not a defined thing. Sometimes mercy was allowing leniency to her opponent in the heat of battle, and sometimes mercy was denying life to one so that another my live.

 _Darius_ was _right_.

She glanced to the man.

What was stopping the unconscious from rising after their slumber to pillage and rape and kill? Nothing was stopping them; Riven was granting no one mercy this way.

Because dammit, _Darius was right_. It _was_ Ionia or Noxus, no place for grey space between the two. Either Noxus lived and Ionia fell, or Noxus would run and Ionia would live another day, another century more like. There was no possible cooperation, no feasible truce between the two nations. One would fall and one would rise.

So Riven would ensure the right one fell and the right one rose. She would grant mercy to Ionians by slaying Noxians; she would protect the lambs by hunting the wolves. A life for a life, a wolf for a sheep, a Noxian for an Ionian. This was how she would roll. This was how she would grant mercy.

And she would start right now.

No one but the keen eyes of Darius detected her change in posture, how her spine straightened, how her eyes glazed over, how she set one foot in front of the other, but he could do nothing but watch.

The first man did not see anything coming, and either did the second or third. Two heads thudded against the dirt, the third man whole but run all the way through.

The fourth caught on, attempted a guard of some sort, but her sword was stronger than his and the top two thirds of his blade thunked dull and useless alongside the top third of his body.

The arrow deflection was easier, done quicker than before now that her faith sharpened her, and as soon as the projectile jounced from the flat of her blade, she turned left and punctured the man standing there through the eye that was wide with fear, surprise, and confusion.

The remainder tried to back away, to give the archers room to mow her down, but she would have none of this. As the fifth man stuttered his backpedaling, she caught him by the metal collar and jerked him toward her. She sidestepped as he was flung past her, pirouetting to gain momentum, build power, and finally spinning to cut him in half.

From the man's body that twirled in two midair, a gusting column of air seemed to be born from the meeting of her blade and his torso, and Riven flung the tornado in the same motion up to the ridge.

The cottony tip of the cyclone just itched at the stone ground as it touched down, and as soon as it had landed, it strove forward, winds furiously howling as the tempest rocketed along the stone path overlooking the courtyard like a racehorse sprinted around a race track. Everything in its path, archers in onyx chainmail, spare reserves of arrows, bombs for dropping onto attackers, and anything else that rested atop the great fortifications were blasted from their places, thrown through the air and broken on walls, floors, and other archers. Nothing was spared from the tempest's wrath.

Only then did the wind dissipate and return to its master whose steel separated a man from his legs in one swift blow, and he scrabbled and screamed as he pulled himself away from the carnage.

The awed others attempted to go it slow, considering she had just butchered all of Darius' elite, but she would not allow them a second of peace.

A horizontal blow gashed open a man's throat, and as she approached the next target, she suddenly flicked her fingers before her, their comrades' blood flinging from her fingertips and speckling their eyes distractingly.

Two were blinded, wiping crimson from their eyes, so the first did not notice the strike that cut open his neck and the second could not see the blade that chopped him clean in half from head to groin.

The others that were not distracted stepped back to avoid a similar punishment, but there was only so far they could flee.

Darius was not impressed with his warriors' cowardice, but he allowed them to be slaughtered, so Riven could not care less what he thought.

She caught one, the twenty-fifth or –sixth, she had lost count by now, near the wall, and the red spewing from his throat proved a fashionable compliment to the black stone.

She caught the second as he tripped backwards over a body, leaning right and skewering his heart as he attempted to deliver one last, frenzied thrust.

She caught the third as he tried to save the second, ducking under his failed horizontal swipe to the nape of her neck and slashing open his abdomen. He slouched over in pain, his intestines slithering through his fingers, and Riven stepped forth, looping her arm around his neck. She jerked violently upward, bone crunching into her armpit, and dropped his flaccid corpse to the ground.

The only survivor was the legless man pathetically heaving himself for the door, painting the ground where he hobbled with an artist's stroke of vermillion.

Riven mollified her thumping heart, erased all thoughts of bloodlust from her raging mind, and simmered until she was tranquil and unfeeling once more as she impaled the final guard through his spine.

She breathed through her nose, pupils lazily chasing the veins behind her eyelids, listening to the clamor as the guardsmen battered vainly at the door. She only pivoted to face Darius when she was certain he was still where she had left him.

Crimson eyes stared into crimson eyes, spotless steel contrasting soaked scarlet robes.

Darius huffed, disgusted. "You would've done great things for Noxus. But now, you slay the ones you once called 'brother'. Is this-," he looked out over the garden of death, blood fertilizing the bodies planted there, "-how far you've fallen?"

"I've only fallen to your level, Darius. No more, no less."

Darius grunted at that. A conceding, "I suppose so."

"Before one of us dies-."

"Before you die, you mean. I've come too far to fail now," Darius corrected.

"No, _I_ have come too far to fail now. _You_ have come just far enough."

Darius was silent.

"What's the punishment for a deserter?"

Darius sneered without the smile. "Looking to rejoin the ranks?"

"No, not on my life. I'm simply curious as to why I've never seen a Noxian outside of Noxus."

"Death," he replied bluntly. "On sight."

"And treason?"

"Execution."

"This doesn't seem like an execution," Riven commented.

Darius hefted his axe, grimaced. "But it is."

And then he advanced. Not a sprint, but quick, proud strides straight toward her. Riven met him in the center, the voices and the shouting behind the door like an audience to gladiators.

Darius swung at her neck with all the might of Noxus, with all of the zeal for his country that flowed through his bulging veins. It was fast and deadly, but Riven trained with the fastest and the deadliest, defeated the fastest and the deadliest.

The blow approached from outside, to her left, in a wide, deceptively swift arc.

She pirouetted left, ducking under the corrupted steel, and expended all her momentum in rending through the armor of his right flank, a gash of ruined metal searing through the area just under his armpit.

He snorted and swung the swing again, lower this time and from the opposite direction, incoming to her right.

An opportunity arose, and she took a step inward, raised her blade above her head, waited patiently, nerves completely at ease despite actively pausing her movements in the path of something that would sunder her in half.

He was too close to hit her with the blade now; if he continued, his forearm would collide with her chest. He could not see this, however, because the pace of battle moved too fast for him to realize what Riven was doing.

Riven stepped forward to build speed and swung straight downward with perfect timing: her blade connected with his wrist, passing cleanly through and completely cleaving through all muscle, arteries, and bone. While his arm continued its harmless arc to her left, his hand and his damned axe flew to her right behind her, and all that Riven was hit with was a spray of thick blood.

Darius howled, head thrown back, fingers of his other hand clamping around his forearm.

Riven fluidly transferred her motion from forward to sideways, pivoting on one foot to swipe at the tendons outside the exposed joint in his leg, cutting through part of the plate in the process.

He dropped so hard to one knee, had the ground been anything but earth, the floor would have crumbled beneath his mammoth build.

And just like that, the fight was over.

She loomed over him on his absent weapon hand, Darius cradling his injured appendage to his chest, looking over at her.

There was no terror in his eyes, no fear of death, nothing that usually appeared in the windows to the soul just before the panes were shattered forever. There was frustration, but there was always frustration when someone was bested, no matter how small amount it was.

Instead, Darius' eyes were exhausted; dark bags highlighted his face, and he looked so, so tired. Tired of waking every morning for twelve years to fight and fight and fight, only to have everything he had fought for be reset the next morning. Tired of sentencing millions of men, good, Noxian men, to their deaths each day only to accomplish nothing. Tired of the same bullshit for twelve grueling years. His hair had even sprouted strands of white that should not appear for at least a few decades, a testament to his futile efforts.

And then Riven saw what she did not expect: regret, and suddenly she knew.

Darius did not agree with this plan of self-destruction, of "sacrificing" troops for the greater good of Noxus. This was something forced upon him, by Swain undoubtedly, something he hated as much- more than, even- Ionia. His previous statement sounded like an excuse because it _was_ an excuse. It was an excuse that helped him sleep at night, that made it easier for him to swallow the dying cries of his own men at his own hand. Because Darius knew what Riven knew: soldiers, while trained to kill, were still Noxian citizens. They were still just ordinary _people_ with personalities and families, no different from their friends at home who managed stores. They simply decided to serve Noxus in a different way, and because of this, they unrightfully became pawns of war. In Darius' eyes, he was responsible for the murder of thousands of his own. For treason.

Perhaps that was why he bowed his head when her Windblade loudly transformed, offered his neck. For execution.

Riven pitied him.

But this had to be done. It was from his leadership that Ionians died in droves. If she were to leave him to suffer, he would return and massacre again. She would end him now, show his countless victims mercy.

A life for a life.

Without hesitation, Riven's blade ablaze with green power ascended over her shoulders and uncoiled. The ancient runes whistled as they smoothly severed his neck, head of raven hair face-planting into the dirt, body crumpling forward to still completely.

 **ooooo**

Traditional Noxian war paint called for the blood of the warrior's first kill.

Riven did not remember who she had killed first, so she settled for Darius. Cupping her palms in front of the fountain spurting from the cross section of his neck, she gathered his blood into his hands, and cautiously kneeled at her makeshift station.

Despite the ongoing rattle of the army's dogged attempts to bust the door down, she was calmly performing ritual, a mortar and pestle and various powders set lightly upon a cloth of expensive velvet.

She let the blood flow between her fingers and drip in trails into the mortar's small, polished bowl.

Only she seemed to know of this ceremony nowadays, having learned the sacred tradition from the crinkly pages of aged tomes in the Noxian library. Only she seemed able to recite the archaic language forgotten by almost all long, long ago: Ur-Nox.

The ritual was quick, and thankfully so, because Riven's faith in the door's stability splintered along with it with every charge of the battering ram.

First was the blood of her enemy, so she would always know who she was fighting.

Second was magnesium, whose spark would ignite the fires of battle in her heart.

She tossed powder in the bowl.

Third was gold dust, whose pure elements would encase her heart and lend her undying courage.

She sprinkled the dust with the magnesium.

Fourth was a rose as beautiful as the one who had given the flower to her, to remind her why she was fighting and what she was fighting for. She faltered here; this was her parting gift from Fiora, a rose whose petals never decayed. But she reminded herself that she was not destroying it, merely morphing its form. Besides; she would cuddle the real thing endlessly when she returned.

She reluctantly placed the rosebud into the bowl.

Fifth was a seed that was enchanted with a spell she had been taught by Yi, whose moral elements would guide her whenever she was lost.

The seed plunked into the bowl.

As she crushed the ingredients together, grinding and mashing the components into one, unified fluid, she muttered the incantation in Ur-Nox.

" _May I be swift in combat and righteous in my ways_."

" _May my blade never miss and my wit never fail_."

" _May my instinct never fault and my convictions never waver_."

" _May I return to my loved one and bring glory to my homeland_."

" _May I find ultimate victory so I that I may fight again another day_."

She stared at the contents with terrible fascination; the paint would color to depict the maker's virtue.

The liquid swirled and swished, crackled and bubbled and popped, a rainbow of hues mutating in intensity until it settled upon a white so bright and immaculate the paint almost glowed in the starlight.

Purity. White for purity. Her cause was just.

She sighed in relief, but hardened the moment after.

Digits tense but tremorless painted two white stripes below her eyes glowering blood red.

Riven was officially at war.

She packed her things, wrapped the cloak around her shoulders, walked to the where Darius lay, and twisted to face the door. As she raised her weapon straight ahead, green glimmering shards formed from particles that appeared midair, combining like a jigsaw until a real sword protruded from her outstretched arm that burned a dangerous emerald.

She flicked the tip up and over, then let her arm fall to her hip.

A gentle breeze flourished into a devastating bluster, and the doors erupted from their hinges.

As the Noxian military force poured through the doors, as the furious barrier of Noxian destruction invaded the courtyard and eliminated all chances of peaceful escape, as certain doom encroached upon her, she did not cringe, did not flinch.

She would fight, brutal and unrestrained.

A wind tussled her stained, platinum locks as the horde shouted and screeched.

They would not show her mercy, so she would not show them mercy.

A breeze chilled her skin into gooseflesh with its promise for devastation as their weapons charged forth.

She would do whatever it takes to win, to walk away and spend her life with her Fiora.

A tempest lurked inside of her, threatening to detonate as the distance closed. They were almost upon her.

Indiscriminate Distrust for everything, for the courage of her attackers, for the stability of the floor she walked upon, for those too-good-to-be-true moments that were certainly traps, kept her wary and alert of her surroundings.

Acute, violent Anger, at her enemies' for forcing her hand, at the world for being the way it was, at Noxus for ripping her from her lover, supplied her with endless reserves of strength and speed that would never be matched by anyone.

Inexorable, unabated Indifference ignored the emotions in her chest, the false pleas to spare them, and the other silly empathies that did not belong in war and secured her mind from unnecessary clutter.

And Survival ensured she would live to experience them all, to terminate everyone there was to terminate.

Before she launched into the melee, she allowed the briefest moments to empty all skepticism from her soul.

"For what it's worth," Riven whispered, "I'm sorry."

The gale winds exploded as she surged forward, unleashing an awesome power upon all her enemies boxed in with her. Deafening winds from the heavens shook the very _mountain_ to its core, displacing pebbles and dirt and blistering winds froze everyone.

Riven's motions were fluid and graceful, slicing and dicing and killing everything in her path while her blade nimbly whirled around her. Her victims were not gory husks; the sheer energy encased within her sword cremated them on the spot, their bodies bursting into clouds of grey ashes, ashes that carried on the wind and blinded everyone nearby.

The moment the doorframe hovered over her, she redirected her sword and slammed the blade into the ground. A booming crack of thunder pounded the mountain, green lightening disintegrating anyone caught in the initial blast, and stone hurtled through the night air at lethal speeds. The archway buckled and relented, quashing tens of lives, but there were still scores between Riven and the exit, so she kept swinging.

A dynamic green flashed and sizzled through mobs and mobs of Noxians, cutting swathes through the crowds, slamming Mount Targon to envelope countless in dazzling spheres of emerald death. Winds screamed, hurling snipers from their nests and tearing down obstacles too large to scythe through, a transparent hurricane whose eye centered on the ever-moving Riven razing defenses and pushing her to fight faster and harder to accommodate for the numbers that grew larger and larger.

A mist of pure ashes choked like a sandstorm, and Riven continued to contribute as she carved through one, two, five, seven Noxians in one sweep. She fought like Hell and Hell fought back, but for once, the forces of evil were truly outmatched by the forces of good.

The bulwark that had fastidiously repelled onslaughts of dragons and Rakkor warriors scrunched like a tin can as Riven roared past it.

Finally, she was free of all confines; the second stride down the mountain path was a dead sprint, bolting down the mountain and kicking up clouds of dust. She need not stop to fight any in her way because they were knocked away by twisters before they had reached striking range.

She was running out of road to tear up: a precipitous cliff lay stubbornly in her path. There was no other option that would ensure her getaway.

So she jumped.

Headfirst she plummeted hundreds and thousands of feet, savoring the way the air licked at her skin, enjoying the symphony of rushing wind bellowing in her eardrums. She casually tilted her head to gaze at the stars, searching for constellations Fiora had eagerly insisted they find one clear evening.

Riven wondered where Fiora was now, if she were stargazing just like her and, if she was, if those icy blue pools were staring at the same parts of the sky that she was.

Riven would return to her. That was a close call, at the mountain base, but she would never allow that to happen again. Dying was not an option.

An updraft out of nowhere slowed her descent until she landed light on her toes in the grass. She searched out her horse, pleased to discover he had been a good boy and had not snapped free of his reigns that tied him to a spruce bough.

She mounted the beast, then galloped off into the night, striking a single name from the list.

 **ooooo**

 **Thanks for reading! Tell me what you think, please- I'd really appreciate it!**


	29. Chapter 28- My Dearest Fiora

**Thanks for the support and all that jazz! I really appreciate your guys' opinions. Please enjoy another chapter!**

 **1 Week Ago**

The stars were lonely that night, their light cold and bitter in their inescapable prison in the sky. They couldn't move, couldn't stretch their twinkling legs to bound across the blackness, couldn't travel to where they yearned to be next to the moon. They could only sit there and wait to fade away as the day approached.

But day was a long ways away, Fiora realized.

The air was deathly frigid, as was she, where Fiora stood a good distance away from the front doors left slightly ajar. That could be contributed by her attire, but she wouldn't change from her clothes if her life depended on it.

The plain tank top, the shorts short enough to pass as undergarments, the socks with some ridiculous, frilly design; they all smelled like Riven, and she refused to separate herself from what little left of her lover she still possessed.

Normally, she would only don one, maybe two articles of clothing, hold something that used to belong to her, in this game she played. This game where she sought to survive Riven's essence as long as possible, where she attempted to extend that period between now, when Riven's presence was still imaginably tangible, and sometime in the future, when Fiora's own scent would wordlessly wash away whatever traces of her lover still existed.

Normally, she was careful and wise, rationing Riven with a planning mind.

But tonight, she smothered herself, in the tank top and the shorts and the socks. In Riven. In hope.

Fiora felt like that was the only thing she truly had left these days. She had money, more than anyone could ever fathom, but she had no one to spend it with, or on. She had power, but no reason to pry her leverage, no one to alter the outcome for. She had love, and lots of it, but she had no one to give it to.

But hope? She had plenty of that, more so than was probably healthy, but she didn't care.

The nightmares had returned almost immediately following Riven's departure. They were of the unrelenting fear that seized her father, of the strings that pulled his hands and feet and manipulated his fingers to drop vile poison into a chalice. They were of the regret, the anguish, the remorse that thrust into her heart when she thrust her blade into her father's. They were of the punishing glares and glowers she received from strangers when she walked the streets, and even from her own family when she sulked down the corridors of her home. They were of the calculating, unsympathetic vice she was trapped in for the longest time, the vice of _honor_.

Fiora could manage these, for she'd enough experience tussling with them that they posed little more than a nuisance to her sleep.

It was the nightmares where Riven didn't come home that killed her a little bit day by day, awaking from the terrible possibility with tears in her eyes and a scream in her dry throat. The ones where a messenger would appear one day, without warning, without empathy, to deliver another name for another memorial for another war.

That's what she would be to him, to the messenger, to everyone; just another body in a field far, far away. They would lament about how awful war was, but they wouldn't really care. It wasn't their loved ones dying this time, so they would return to their pompous tea parties like the greatest woman ever hadn't just perished, would hobble home to forget over a relaxing dinner, would reunite with _their_ families as if _they_ had any right to be happy.

Fiora was always jealous. She'd dished out dirty looks to anyone appraising Riven overtly, would subtly show ownership of what was hers- perhaps her fingers would suddenly entwine with her lover's, or maybe Fiora would claim her lover's lips- whenever someone threatened her with superior looks or with flirty character.

Riven would always assure her later that there was no one more beautiful or more interesting than her, but habits were hard to kick.

Fiora wanted Riven to tell her that then, as she gazed at the heavens. She wanted her lover to wrap her powerful arms around her and rock them side to side.

But she couldn't have that, so instead she wrapped herself in Riven's clothes, clutched at the shirt like she was bleeding from a wound agonizing and unhealable. She was, of course, but with no way to staunch the trauma, she elected to drag herself outside and pass under the stars.

A white puff of breath surged from her parted lips turning an unhealthy purple as winter abuse her.

This didn't seem a good idea now that she was here; the stars offered no solace, only indifference. She wondered what they all did way up there, where there was nothing but frozen space.

Did their cries reach their kin over the expanse between them? Or were they doomed to silence for a painful eternity? If they could speak and be heard, what were they saying? Were they conversing over the insignificance of Runeterra, over the foolish concept of a species divided among itself, warring among itself? Were they laughing at her, at how pitiful a picture she painted with her arms drawn into herself, shivering as the frosty wind blazed over her fair skin, icy blue eyes forlornly ogling their gelid glare?

It didn't matter now, anyways. The stars didn't care, and if they did, there wasn't a thing they could do.

Snow crunched behind her, but the footsteps sounded miles away.

The voice, however, was inches from her ear.

"Fiora…"

She pivoted slowly.

She didn't question why Riven was there, not a foot away from her, or why she wasn't bundled appropriately for the weather.

Riven wore a sad smile, apologetic, and Fiora's mouth gradually mirrored the sentiment.

"Riven…" she croaked through lips chapped by the cold.

" _Fiora…_ " was all her lover said.

Fiora stepped forward, almost tripped when her stiff joints weren't as pliable or responsive to her command, but she trekked the miniscule distance between them with the effort of ten miles.

She needed to touch her, to feel her. Three weeks never seemed so long.

The energy required to raise her hand was beyond her, but desperation drew power from its infinite wells and fingers ascended to tickle her lover.

Riven's cheek was warm and real beneath her palm, and she could run her fingers over the dimples of her smile.

"I have missed you," she whispered.

But Riven didn't say a word, just leaned into her palm, and looked at her with those big scarlet eyes. The flesh beneath Fiora's hand turned cold as ice.

Then, Riven began to disintegrate, whisking away in a breeze, her cheek slowly turning to blue, frozen flakes. The rest of her body followed suit, shattering into thousands of unique flakes that glimmered in the moonlight.

Her face was the last to disappear into a flurry, and just before that too transformed into a mask of ice that fractured and flew away, Riven whispered.

" _Wait for me…_ "

Fiora watched without surprise; this couldn't have been anyways, not even with all the magic of Valoran.

"I am trying, mon amour." A teardrop dripped down porcelain and thawed a crater from the snow. "But it is so hard."

She stood there, watching the flakes dance with the stars, envying their glittering masquerade because Riven belonged in _her_ arms, not theirs.

All was quiet as the snow fell, tangling between the strands of her hair. She'd emerged from her cozy manor because sleep eluded her, but now, when a gentle curtain of white descended upon the stage; now Fiora was drifting away, eyes drooping, breathing slowing.

"Mademoiselle?"

Fiora's eyelids fluttered open.

"Fiora?" the voice asked again, bewildered, frightened.

Fiora turned. One of her maidservants cowered behind her, hand delicately caressing her shoulder.

"Mademoiselle, what are you doing out here?!"

Fiora glanced upward where Riven had floated from view, snow gathering on her eyelashes.

The servant looked to the same place and saw nothing. She examined her from head to toe.

"Why, we must get you inside quickly! You are cold to ze touch and your lips are blue!" the servant exclaimed, tugging instantly at her shoulder.

Fiora processed the request with a drowsy mind, numb everywhere.

Hazily, she slurred, "Ohkay."

She raised her leg and stumbled over her frozen knees, and though the servant caught her, they both nearly tumbled anyways under Fiora's weight.

She didn't notice when the icy floor became smooth stone, when the frosty air melted into a fireside heat. She didn't notice how they ambled up a flight of stairs uneasily, how a second servant joined ranks and practically carried her the whole way.

She only recognized the change in setting when heavy covers crept up to her chin, and for a moment, her groggy half-consciousness forgot all her woes.

Until she twisted in her bed, a frown on her face, and scrabbled for Riven and remembered.

The wound tore open again, the thin scars rupturing, and the pain was just as fresh as when Riven first abandoned her.

And the covers were so _cold_. Colder than the snow, and she wanted to leap from her bed, bound down the stairs, and embrace the warmth of the snow, but she knew her limbs wouldn't allow anything of the sort, much less her servants who doubtless patrolled her room now.

So she remained in the bone-chilling cold that reminded her of what was lost, and sobbed sobs that choked her and curled her knees up into her chest.

Steadily, over a time too long, she ebbed away into the darkness, bleeding out onto the bed with a tremble and a sigh that silenced everything.

 **ooooo**

Riven didn't greet her as her eyelids reluctantly retreated. Instead, her throbbing brain welcomed her to the waking world, and though the bed felt uncomfortable and foreign, she craved more sleep where she would at least be free of physical torment.

Her sleep was long and dreamless, a mercy not often spared for her, but she was still exhausted. It seemed that even when she'd trapped sleep, true rest still roamed just out of her clutches.

She grumbled some curse as pain spiked just behind her eyes, and she shifted onto her side, burrowing into the pillow to escape what little light trickled through the curtains. When that didn't soothe anything, she scrunched the collar of the tank top in a last-ditch effort and buried her nose in the fabric.

It worked. Not completely, but the gentle smell assuaged her headache until the loud twinge was nothing but a dull roar. Even when she was away, even when Riven nearly froze her to death, her lover was still a tender pacifier to her brusque snide.

She overwhelmed herself with Riven's scent, filtered her breathing through the cloth until the fabric no longer smelled of her lover.

The water kissed her skin sharply, spraying mist and heat over her bare bosom, over her sore thighs, her tingling toes, her aching back, and her tired eyes. The heat permanently cleansed some of the discomfort from her system, cramps and irritation sizzling down her calves and into the drain along with the filth from yesterday.

She was forced to eat by worried servants when she nestled glumly into her seat, and though the palate was varied and distinct, all the food was flavorless mush, all the juices and teas as bland as water, when she tasted it all for herself. But breakfast relieved more stress, and she was thankful for that, though her stomach protested.

"What is ze agenda today?" Fiora queried absently, only mildly concerned with other matters.

"Ze agenda is clear," a servant informed her, and Fiora sighed. No plans. She would be delighted had the circumstances been any different.

How did Fiora entertain herself before Riven? When she wasn't seeking duels with strangers?

The answer was: utterly nothing. Save maybe reading and sword practice, but she'd perused through every page of every book there was in the Laurent Manor, and practice alone only brought memories of clashing blades with a certain platinum Noxian.

So she resorted to what she'd busied with for the past week.

"I will be in my room," she announced as the balls of her feet padded noiselessly up marble stairs.

"Mademoiselle…" a servant, the one from last night, interrupted hesitantly.

Fiora's head angled in acknowledgment, one foot pausing in front of the other. She knew what the servant wished to speak of, of how she would eventually cordon herself from the world and leave everyone to wonder whether she even breathed. She also knew how correct the woman was in questioning this poisonous habit, this practice of scampering into a corner to die alone, but she hadn't the energy to do anything else.

She was just so tired.

Besides; what would they prefer, her dying where she was? Out in the open, where passersby could ogle her pretty, lifeless face like some museum relic? Leaving a corpse, another problem, behind for the maids to brush into a dustpan and dump into the receptacle like the rest of the trash?

No, Fiora convinced herself this was in the best interest for all involved.

"… Never mind, Mademoiselle Fiora. Carry on."

Maybe the maid did too?

She nodded once, "Adieu," then resumed her journey.

She was startled by the stark emptiness, by the lack of life in her room. On the average day, she would enter to find Riven propped on a pillow with her nose in a book, or maybe she would be marveling at the artistry of the scant pictures on the walls, or maybe she would be on the way out and they would collide in a giggling fit.

But she wasn't here today, and Fiora expected that she wouldn't be there tomorrow or the next day, or the next day after that.

She brushed off the somber tones swimming through the air like sluggish ravens, because she was so familiar with the mood that it was just that easy, and waded through the cheerless room until her rump hit the chair at the desk.

Eager fingers scattered stationary over the desk top in their path toward the locked cubbyhole that held her treasures. The pins clicked and the tumbler shuddered as she inserted and twisted the necessary key, and her fingertips pranced over documents.

The deed for the manor, the trade alliance contract, the citizenship papers…

There. Riven's letter.

She retrieved the parchment from the cubbyhole, unrolling the paper with grace as to not crease the letter more than was necessary.

The letters were neat and meticulous, evenly spaced and deliberate, just like the words themselves.

" _My Dearest Fiora…_ " the header read.

" _Before you read the contents enclosed, know that I love you with all of my heart…_ "

She read the first line again.

" _…_ _I love you with all of my heart…_ "

That was her favorite part. Her lips tugged upwards as her eyes scanned that one phrase. It was the only thing she smiled about nowadays. She thumbed the words, and though there was no difference in texture, the word " _love_ " seemed softer than the others.

She continued to read.

" _…_ _I am sorry. I resolved the conflict involving the message we received, but it seems that I must stay…_ "

The news crushed her initially; when she'd first grasped the letter in uncertain hands, she knew something wasn't right. Riven should've waltzed through the door, not the messenger.

But as she read, she understood.

She understood that Riven couldn't idle by and do nothing while the world that was like a second home to her was razed and destroyed. She understood Riven's inability to ignore what her homeland was doing, how her homeland was being constantly corrupted. She understood the need to stay and see things out to the end, to stick around and ensure the right thing happened, and she understood the time required to perform such a feat. She understood the perils and hazards Riven would be forced to endure, understood the great danger she would always be weighed beneath.

" _…_ _With so much love, Your Riven_ ," the letter concluded.

She restarted from the beginning.

" _My Dearest Fiora…_ "

Fiora understood that Riven was righteous, and principled, and ethical, and stout in her beliefs.

They were attractive traits in Fiora's eye, and she adored her all the more because of them.

And if Fiora couldn't understand any of that, could even mildly empathize with Riven's strict sense of justice, she could at least understand that Riven dearly loved her. She said so in four other instances about the letter.

Fiora read each and every last word as if they would bring her vitality, and for a short time, they did.

She read each and every " _… I love you…_ " as if the phrase would save her from this torture, as if she would actually hear her lover's voice as deep and vast and interesting as the ocean recite the precious lines. And for a short time, she could.

She read each and every " _… I am so sorry…_ " as if the apology could possibly compensate for the misery Riven was causing her, as if four words, five syllables, ten letters could prevent resent and malice from taking hold. But they couldn't. Not this time.

Because the truth was that Fiora wasn't resentful; there was no point to it. There was no advantage to be gained through breeding scorn and anger. Neither would bring Riven home. And in the end, that was all Fiora wanted: to bring Riven home.

She desperately needed Riven to know this, to know that no matter what, Fiora held nothing against her.

Fiora cobbled together the materials, the quills and the inkwells and the paper that she'd plowed through, and when all was gathered she pressed the pen to the paper and wrote. Her lettering was twirling and swooping and delicate, and like Riven's, her cursive matched her meaning.

Fiora wrote about how much she missed her lover, about how much she loved her. Fiora wrote about the stars, wrote about the special constellations they'd jokingly concocted, and asked if she could see "Gregory the Gorgeous" who'd saved the world with nothing but his flawless complexion and killer abs, or "Penelope the Pernicious" whose antics had wrought destruction on all nobles wearing the color pink, or any of their decidedly dirtier creations.

She wrote about life over the past weeks, about the progress of the battle against homophobia, about how boring the grand scheme of things was without her. She wrote about how much she loved her, about how much she appreciates the little things so much more now that they were gone.

But most of all, she wrote about how proud she was of her Riven. She wrote about how all the Laurent staff were in awe as her feats traveled across oceans and mountains, how they sought her out first when the rumors of the General's assassination at the hand of an ashen-haired warrior reached Demacia.

She wrote about how she realized the danger, about how even though she needed her at home, all that mattered was that she returned home safe and sound, and if that required another month, or a year away, then so be it.

She wrote about how much she needed her. Then she wrote about how much she loved her again.

But when she studied her first draft, she found her writing too emotional. She couldn't have Riven worrying about her, so she crumpled the paper and tossed the garbage into the waste bin.

She reread from the beginning again.

" _My Dearest Fiora…_ "

She scratched a second draft, but that one sounded too callous and unfeeling, so she crushed it and let it fall to the others.

The third was alright, a few errors and inconsistencies, but just as she was to envelope the parchment, a single, salty tear smudged the ink, flourishing through the black veins and infecting the paper.

The fourth was an attempt to fix the third's errors, but she only managed to exacerbate them further.

The fifth was stabbed with the quill when nothing seemed to go right.

Her knees were under her chin, her arms around her shins, and she was quivering with frustration. Frustration with her own ineptitude. Frustration with Riven's maddening absence. Frustration with her helplessness, with the vanity of it all.

This was when Riven would suddenly appear behind her, would press her lips to her neck and encircle her in a hug that evaporated all ailments, would cure the tightness in the back of her throat. Her lover possessed an uncanny knack for discovering her in her darkest hours.

But Riven was nowhere to be seen, so Fiora improvised as best she could.

The words still felt soft beneath her fingertips.

" _My Dearest Fiora…_ "

 **ooooo**

 **I apologize for my tardiness and for the length, but this was too short to write a long chapter and too long to be a segment in another chapter. Thanks for reading this far, and I'll see you next time!**


	30. Chapter 29- The Assault on Ionia

**I'm trying to post on a two week schedule, but I'm sorry if I've been posting out of wack lately. Edited by my new beta Gmp1000! Enjoy!**

The sound of war was unmistakable.

The ringing of metal. The chorus of cries, both strangled, pitiful pleas and berserk howling. The booming war horns that rallied armies. Riven knew them all.

She could her them now as her horse galloped toward the raucous, hooves clopping the wet earth.

Darius' demise had thrown a wrench, practically a bomb, into Noxus' grinding gears of war, and many of their offensives predicted by spies hadn't occurred and likely wouldn't until at least they'd selected a suitable replacement for the General's position. Even now, only a week after Darius' passing, the front line had crippled, and Ionia's counterattack was beginning to regain land not seen for twelve years. Noxus would likely recover eventually, the train of Ionian progress screeching until it tottered forward at a snail's pace, but the train would still totter _forward_ , and after a decade of immobility, that was all that mattered.

However, what Noxus had planned for months, maybe years, wouldn't be cancelled by any circumstance. The assassination of the General had perhaps stalled for a week, but not even the seizing of the Noxian capital itself could halt Swain's plans, not when victory was within a hair's breadth away.

And victory was within a hair's breadth away from Noxus. The assault had surprised everyone.

For twelve years, the line between Ionian and Noxian occupation was static. A good ways into that twelve years, an assumption was borne out of sheer repetitiveness, a sort of comfort that the line would never falter: when the next morning's sun arose, no land would be gained or lost by either nation. The body counts may be staggered, but the line would remain motionless, uncompromising.

This was something both sides had accepted as fact; as long as there were men to fight, the fight would remain the same. As a result, both sides had softened, had ceased the random heroic charges that only ever lead to more bloodshed. Reinforcements were always present, but they'd thinned because everyone thought that the other side wouldn't ever displace them.

And Swain, the clever bastard, knew this. He had to; he had to know the Generals and the Commanders and the Lieutenants would fatigue of this maddening constant. He had to know the expectation would set in, would weaken the front lines to his hands that could manipulate anything. He had to know; it was the only logical reason why this would happen so late in the war.

The offensive just mounted by the Noxian army was the largest yet. Comprised of most of the reserves, an uncountable collection of Noxus' best warriors, and several Behemoths, the assault had swatted the triumphant Ionians aside and were now advancing with startling speed and an unstoppable momentum- straight towards the capital of Ionia.

The Elders would hopefully be given enough of a heads-up that they were able to evacuate, but the Placidium was still the economic heart, and its destruction would spell ruin. If they reached the Placidium, Ionia would fall with it.

Riven would not let them reach the Placidium. There was so much on the line- _everything_ was on the line- and she could not fail the land that healed her. That would be like a daughter letting her mother die by the hands of her father, like a God that had let his world crumble and rot when he had the capacity to salvage what was left.

Besides, Riven had just begun her journey. That wasn't how the tales went, was it? The knight slain at the claws of the dragon, never laying his eyes upon the beautiful damsel in distress?

This may not have been a fairytale, but there was still a damsel waiting for Riven in the castle. A damsel who was probably _very_ distressed.

And Riven had slain dragons before.

 **ooooo**

Though an army has a million feet and a horse has only four, the horse is still faster. That was how the lone exile had skirted around her old pack and was approaching from the east.

If Riven's information was true, an Ionian retaliation force was dispatched to intercept the incoming army at a chokepoint, a valley just south of the Placidium, and delay until reinforcements could arrive. The proximity was not to Ionia's preference, but Ionia's preference had gone ignored for what seemed like an eternity now. This was the last defense against the onslaught.

And, as Riven neared the crest of a trough overlooking the valley, the defense was breaking.

The floor of the valley was mostly flat, a woven blanket of vibrant grass and shrubbery, but slightly higher on the Ionian side to the north than the Noxian assault to the South. The walls were steep embankments scraped by rocky avalanches and bruised by bare patches of dirt, and they didn't stop rising until there were two colossal mountain ranges boxing the valley in. No wonder the Ionians had chosen this as the place for battle; there was no possible route through which to circumnavigate the defense.

From her position above, watching over the battle like a hawk poised for the kill, or an angel with a blessing stowed, the factions warring were near indistinguishable in the haze of dawn. However, the victors were easily identified: from the south, a frothless, obsidian sea poured, endlessly reaffirming the wave that battered the north, whose reinforcements were petering out and were gradually being pushed further up the slope.

But the Behemoths were nowhere in sight, a fact that nipped at Riven's frayed peace of mind. She hadn't spotted them on her trip upward, and as she surveyed the jagged horizon of fiery orange and candlelight yellow, they were nowhere to be seen. That couldn't be good, but there were more pressing matters at hand.

The situation was grim. To Riven, there seemed little she could do here, but she would still do all she could.

And then, as she passed halfway in her descent into the valley, the Ionian defense broke completely. Collapsing entirely, hundreds clad in Ionian blue sprinted up the hill, fleeing like roaches cowering away from light, but here, the light was pitch black. The retreat was shameless; they'd done this many times over, and if they survived, they would likely do it many times again.

Riven faltered, grit her teeth, and spurred her horse northward like the Void itself chased after her. Faster than an arrow, they hurdled toward the north pass to reverse the retreat, Riven pressed against the rippling back of her horse, Fiora's cape billowing in the wind that steadied them, guided them down the safest and quickest path.

The ground evened out, and now it was tufts of grass ripped from the earth by pounding hooves that whipped past Riven's vision. She merged with the stampede, the glint of swords and pikes bobbing all around her as she waded through the crowd of panicked warriors, the deafening thudding of boots beating the dirt echoing from the mountaintops.

Then Riven emerged from the throng, abandoning the densest of the running congregation and passing very few soldiers. The summit of the slope was a short distance away, pocked sporadically by retreating Ionian's ducking behind the safety of the apex.

As Riven approached, she noticed a single man standing still, witnessing the chaos. His armor was elaborate, the finest scarlet plate hanging from his shoulders and his chest engraved with the golden Ionian symbol for "warmaster". A skirt of the same hue and the same plate dangled to his knees where more red laced with gold wrapped around his shins and ankles. His helmet was much flashier than the standard, ridges embossed in gold, a crescent crowning his forehead, and a mask depicting a furious, tusked demon suppressed his facial features.

When Riven clopped up beside him, halting while her horse panted for breath, the man removed the mask, and even from horseback Riven could see the tears running down his aged cheeks.

Her voice was loud over the clamor of passing soldiers, her tone even but demanding an answer. "General! What's happening? Why are we retreating?"

He didn't look to her at first. Just stared down at his fleeing warriors, gaping at the incoming assault of Noxians.

"General!" Riven shouted again.

When he looked to her, his head moved slowly, and when she could clearly see his eyes, she grimaced.

"It is over," he said, low and trembling like his clenched draw. "We have lost."

A tear of frustration dripped down his chin, down to his arm that crossed over his body to grip the hilt of his sword. Not a sword, Riven realized; it was a dagger, ornate and ceremonial. No more and no less than a foot long, blade bright and untouched by combat.

He poised the tip to his stomach, gazed straight forward with the eyes of regret and defeat. Gazed straight at the enemy.

"General!? What are you doing!?"

Suddenly his face was dour and bitter, his posture defiant and confident. "I will not die by _their_ blade."

Blood spluttered from his wincing lips as he plunged the blade through his armor and through himself, and he fell to his knees. Though pain was introduced, there was no falter in his convictions on his face as he died, his hands that limped and paled still wrapped around the hilt of the dagger, propped almost straight upward by his rigid armor.

"Fuck." And Riven's fingers massaged her eyes as she scrabbled for a plan, for anything that could reverse the irreversible tide.

With a sigh, Riven realized that she would have to take over now. She pulled the reigns to face the retreating soldiers.

She leaned back, yanked the reigns until her horse whinnied and balanced on its hind legs. "Ionia! On me!"

A few spared a passing glance, possibly wondering how a Noxian could've infilitrated this far, but ultimately, not a single soldier even paused their desperate scramble for escape behind her.

"Ionia! Halt!" But still, the same result, and Riven almost considered knocking some heads after a particularly powerful surge of soldiers nearly knocked over her horse.

Instead, she raised her sword skyward, restrained the tug in her soul that could only be described as buzzing anticipation until it was a roaring, uncontainable ball of passionate rage. She released.

The explosion was loud enough to wake the Gods, the shockwave booming all throughout the valley, displacing loose hats and ruffling stalks of grass. A light brighter than the sun that poked its first weary tendrils of light into the basin flashed emerald and vibrant and washed every surface with volatile green. The world seemed to still for a moment as the light dimmed to a powerful glow then steadied, the armies stumbling to a stop before they remembered their fear and kept on running.

But a few had forgotten their fear, transfixed by the image of a green woman holding the heavens hostage with a blade stitched together by pure light, and they stood a wary distance away, eyeing the woman atop her horse.

Content with her audience, Riven dismissed the remnants of her sword, and the pieces disintegrated and tucked away in that special spot in her soul. She still glowed mildly, but she didn't know that.

Her voice was her best Commander's voice, widely regarded as the best Commander's voice of its time. Stern. Rousing. Almost louder than the explosion.

"Now that I have your attention," she paused, looked around at the men gathered and at the soldiers that flowed around them like they were an island in the middle of a river.

"Why do you run?"

The answers were almost instant, coming from stout, belligerent bodies.

"We have lost!"

"There are too many!"

"We die by the droves! We cannot win!"

Riven's horse whinnied, and she rubbed a comforting palm into its neck. Riven scrunched her brow more than it already was, sat taller.

"But I'm confused. Why do you run?"

The men frowned, murmuring and rocking on their feet.

"Because we have lost!"

"Because there are too many!"

"Because we are dying by the droves!"

"No." Riven shook her head, fixing every last one of them with a stare that could melt iron or reinforce it until it could withstand molten lava. "You are wrong. Those are reasons why you run should run _to_ them, not away. They are _bullshit_ and you know it."

More murmuring, more odd stares.

"This is the final stand. This is what determines the fate of Ionia-."

A rather portly man interrupted, shirtless and exposing his tubby pride painted in blues and reds. "We know! Why do you think we are here?"

The interruption was backed by grunts of approval, by "Yeah!" and hurrahs.

Riven switched tactics.

"You have families?" she asked, looking them over, and almost everyone- scratch that _everyone_ nodded solemnly. And in fact, as Riven surveyed them all, she noticed that the group was growing larger by the second, curious warriors stopping by to see what she was saying.

She singled one of them out in front, a taller man with long, charcoal hair tied into a ponytail at the back of his head, "You!"

"Me"

"Yes you!" Riven gestured to him with a curt nod of her chin. "Who's in this family of yours?"

He glanced around at the others. "Well, there is I, my wife, Asuka, and my sons, Toyotomi and Torii."

"They sound lovely."

"They are my world."

"As they should be." She spoke to all of them now, voice raised over the chaos. "You love your country, don't you?"

Enthusiastic agreement, fist pumping, and that sweeping gaze to ensure that their neighbors were one in the same. Again, there were more that answered the question than there were that she'd asked.

She sat straight again, frowning distastefully. "Bullshit."

An outcry, and they almost rushed her as they pointed and threatened.

"You don't give a damn about your country." She watched as the accusation took root, waiting for just the right time. "You!"

The same man puffed his chest. "What?"

"If I were to somehow poison all the grass of Ionia, and the trees and the shrubs and the ponds until it was nothing but a blackened wasteland, how would you feel?"

He pointed with vigor at her. "Why, I would feel enraged! I would end your life where you stood for ruining these beautiful lands!" And everyone hurrahed again.

"And if I were to do the same to your family?"

The vigor intensified, fury consuming his eyes that widened at the implication, stepping forward and reaching for his weapon. "Is that a threat?"

"Answer the question."

"I would kill you. Slowly. Painfully."

She nodded. "And if it were the choice between the two? If you had to choose between one or the other?"

Eyes widened for a different reason, and he backed away. "What kind of question-?"

Riven could spy the Noxian army encroaching upon them. They had time, but not much left.

"Just answer the question."

"I- My family, of course!"

A fire sparked, and suddenly everyone was shouting at the man for being so foolish, but an equal amount argued in his favor. There was almost a melee, but Riven's voice silenced them all.

She pointed toward tubby. "You! You would sacrifice your family for your country?"

His belly extended farther as he proudly stood taller, hands on wide hips. "It would be a horrible choice, but this land has birthed us, fed us! I would be honored to give my family to the soil!"

"You would be honored to watch your son die?" Riven asked skeptically.

"Daughter!"

"You would be honored to watch your daughter die?" Riven repeated.

He looked around for support. "That is what I said, was it not?"

Riven leaned forward on her saddle, one eyebrow raised. "You would be honored to watch the life leave your daughter's eyes?"

He nodded, but the bob of his chin was barely perceptible.

"You would be honored to feel your daughter's blood seep through your fingertips? You would feel honored to have her die in your arms, to listen to her wailing as your little girl bleeds into your shirt?"

He rubbed his neck. "Well… I never said-."

"You would be honored to dig your daughter's grave from the soil you saved? You would be honored to carve her cross and hold a funeral for your little daughter?"

He bristled. "I never-!"

She leaned further toward him, practiced piercing gaze drawing a bead of sweat down his forehead. "You would be honored to cut your daughter's life short for your country? You would be honored to live your entire life knowing that you traded your daughter, your bubbly, cute sunshine, for a patch of fucking _dirt_?"

Silence.

Complete silence from everyone. They shifted on their feet, awkwardly rolling necks and staring into the distance. Probably toward their families.

"And you?" she asked another man, shorter and stouter. "Family or country?"

"Coun-."

"Don't lie."

"… Family."

She pointed to another. "And you? Family or country?"

"Family?"

Another. "Family or country?"

"Family. Without a doubt."

"As I thought," Riven said, once more looking over everyone, over the crowd that almost spanned the entire summit, over the approaching army of black that howled with rage.

"You aren't here for your country, are you? No," she answered her own question. "You're here for your families. You're here to protect your sons and daughters and wives from Noxus."

Her voice was thunderous, reaching all crevices of mountain and man. "Then I ask again: Whay are you running?"

Riven didn't allow them to answer. "You all think you're here for your families, and yet you run! Don't you know that running means death for everyone?"

Riven pointed to the swelling barricade of Noxian soldiers that closed the distance. They were almost upon them. "When you fight here, when you stand your ground, you die. You die with your head forward and your sword in your hand. You die alone."

" _But_ ," her voice was sharp, carried for miles and snapped everyone out of whatever stupor they were locked in, "When you run, when you flee to your homes and accept that Ionia has fallen and that no one is coming to save you, you do not die on a battlefield."

Her eyes glared at everyone, at their cowardly souls.

"When you run, you are pulled from your homes and thrown into the dirt. You die with your head bent to the dirt and your sword still hanging over your mantelpiece because you've accepted that you're a coward that can't fight. And maybe you don't sit and wait? Maybe you die in a blaze of glory? Maybe you make your ancestors proud with how many Noxian heads you've sent to the mud?"

"But no matter what happens, when you run, you do not die alone. Your family dies with you. They die with their heads bent to the dirt. They die with tears in their eyes. They die because you ran from the fight."

The quiet that settled had soldiers twiddling with their thumbs and looking straight towards her. The crowd was massive now, and the few Ionians that still ran from the army were pulled back into her group like she was magnet and they were chips of metal.

"But when you _fight_ ," Riven jabbed her finger to the Noxians, "When you fight, you will still die. There is virtually no way out of that, but you die _alone_."

"You will bleed into the mud, but your daughter's dead gaze won't be the last thing you see. You will die knowing that you single-handedly saved their lives. You will die," Riven looked to the many with the ponytail, "knowing that your world is safe."

"And they will mourn, your family. Their hearts will break because they've lost a great man. Or woman. But they will be _alive_. They will be alive because you stayed and you fought, and though you died, you _won_."

"So I ask again," She shouted, boomed. " _Why are you running?_ "

Silence. Silence while everyone ruminated. Silence while everyone drummed up another excuse, but Riven didn't have time to dispel whatever that would be; the Noxian assault was close enough that she could clearly discern their war cries.

Ponytail's gaze slowly shifted upward to fix Riven with a stare. He stood taller, shoulders broader, face determined. "I am not running. I am fighting."

A pause before another man, "And neither am I."

"Neither am I."

"I am fighting."

"So am I."

Tubby in the back was next to speak; it was clear that he was at least of high social rank because at least a couple dozen others waited for his two cents. He scratched his beard, looked up, put his left foot before his right, and let his spiked club thump audibly against the ground.

"I know not what you speak of, for _I_ am standing my ground." He clenched his fist in the air. "For little Aiko."

And then the rest were nodding their heads, sheathed weapons sliding and singing into the air where they gleamed.

Riven nodded too. She looked to the dead man still sitting next to her horse, shaking her head. "It would seem your General has resigned to join his family in death."

Tubby huffed, amused. "Bah! He always had more brains than guts anyways."

The audience tittered. Perhaps the death of a General was a good thing, for once? It certainly raised moral, with jokes cracking like the grass under the Noxian army that glided over the field like the night that the sun now burned away.

"You're going to need a leader," Riven noted, looking down over the dead General. She looked up, scanned the audience. "I know I appear Noxian, but I am not anymore. You'll have to trust me."

But they already did, for most of them anyways. She could tell by the way they bounced on the balls of their feet, the way they looked to her for orders. Riven held their lives in her hands, and she would push them to their highest ability.

"You should wear red!" Ponytail said. "Commanders and Generals all wear red." Several muttered agreements.

She jerked her head behind her, to her cape. "I'll coat my cape in the blood of Noxus. That will have to do."

A hurrah here and there.

Noxus was upon them. It was time to act.

Riven looked to their swords and their pikes and their clubs, noting that each and every one was spattered with crimson blood, chipped from wear.

She spurred her horse, her mount whinnying and trotting forward a few paces, and everyone grasped their weapons and readied to depart, to throw themselves at death and fight for their families' lives. "You've killed plenty Noxians, yes?"

"Hundreds!"

"Thousands!"

"So many, you would never believe!"

The crowd riled, patting backs and smacking each other's armored shoulders in that comradery only present between two soldiers, two men that had spilled blood for the same cause.

Riven's horse neighed, reared on its hind legs, and Riven shouted, "Then what's a few more?!"

The crowd cackled, hollered, and many hurrahs were had. All weapons were unsheathed, all's confidence sharp to a lethal glimmer, and they all converged on her, spirits as high as the sky. They were ready to fight. They were ready to die.

Riven hoped that wouldn't happen, but she was as realistic as she was resolute, as she appeared undaunted and immovable.

Noxus was here. The time was now.

"I say it again," Riven raised her blade, spurred her horse back to its rear legs.

" _Ionia, on me!_ "

" _Hurrah!_ "

And she was away, galloping at full speed toward the Noxian front. When she glanced behind her, everyone was hot on her heels, those still with horses just behind her.

They descended upon their enemies like they were afflicted with insanity, like they were the legendary Berserker warriors from myth who transformed into beasts in the heat of battle, and Riven couldn't tell if they really had turned to monsters with gnashing teeth and blood-curdling war cries.

They descended from the heavens like a holy brigade, but they were anything but holy. They cursed and howled and had blood on their hands and their weapons and their minds. They pounded against the valley ground, and Riven bellowed her own savage shriek that spread gooseflesh for the Noxians and fortified the Ionian defenders. Wind whipped her face and she tightened the grip on her sword, closed her eyes for the briefest of moments to imagine her lover's face, her touch, her kiss.

When she opened her eyes, she was more alive than she'd ever been. It would stay that way, no matter how the battle end.

Her horse died almost immediately upon reaching the frontlines. An arrow to the side of the neck.

Riven had seen it coming, so her feet were already planted firmly on the saddle that sputtered and ground to a halt, her legs already coiled. Her horse sagged under its own weight, tripped, and Riven launched herself into the air, a gust of wind pulling her into the sky.

She started with a bang, colliding with the ground and slamming the dirt with her blade. Her Ki erupted, and everyone within the sphere that pulsed from the point of impact was instantly cremated, ashes whisking in the invisible tornado that encompassed Riven.

They ones that weren't vaporized suffered the wrath of ash in their eyes, and as they rubbed and rubbed away the distraction, Riven waded into the army and cut them down. The first ribbons of blood decorated the grass, and the moment the bodies hit the ground, Riven's comrades arrived.

The armies crashed together with a clatter that ricocheted off the mountains, announcing that the battle had begun. Noxus' progress was totally halted by the sheer ferocity of the fight, shields slamming against shields and blades cutting through exposed flesh.

The sound of war was around her, and Riven allowed herself to be consumed by blood.

Every move was instinct, every step premeditated and calculating. Riven knew what would happen before anyone else did, and she acted accordingly.

Three in front of her. The left and right with a sword, the middle with a spear. The swordsmen would corral her and the spearman would strike.

She moved left. The left swordsman struck without power, intending for her to step backward where the spearman would stab. As such, it traveled slow enough through the air that she could easily sidestep to the left and slash upwards.

His limp arm fell to the ground, his helmet containing most of his screams, and she threw him into the path of the spear that hurtled toward her. The spear impaled him a third of the ways down the shaft, and the spearmen stumbled to retrieve his weapon.

In the meantime, the last swordsman was rushing her, weapon high in the air for what would be a devastating downward chop, but Riven stepped in. She intercepted his wrist with her left hand and cut him through the stomach so his pinkish intestines soared through the air alongside blood with a low, horizontal sweep from the right to the left.

Without looking, she pirouetted toward the spearman whose weapon was still embedded in his partner and released all of the strike's momentum in a left-to-right slash that cut the top third of him away.

Around her, the screeching line of battle flexed, but never deviated from a certain pattern. They were being slaughtered in droves, and were in dire need of reinforcements if they were to sustain this defense, but so were the Noxians, three, even four bodies in black, bloodied plate crumbling with every single blue-clad Ionian. At least the colors were distinctive.

Four met her, three with swords before her and one who thought she was sneaky was sulking to her right.

She killed her first, blindly grabbing out for where she knew she would be, wrapping her fingers around her neck that attempted to squeak in surprise but could only squeak in pain as Riven crushed her throat with her hand. As the others tried to rescue her, Riven lifted her with one hand and tossed her into them.

Two of them were caught off guard and bore the weight of their dead comrade, but the third was tricky and dodged around. His jab to her midsection was fast, but Riven was both faster and had predicted his attack. She swatted the blade away so it passed harmlessly outside her left elbow, then slashed left-to-right as his throat.

Spewing blood, he gargled, and as the two who'd recovered approached, she stepped back and then rammed into his flailing body. His mass collided into the rightmost man, and as the leftmost man attempted a high swing that approached from Riven's left, she ducked and thrust into his stomach. When he curled over in agony, she wrenched the sword from his gut that spouted crimson like a spigot it was so big, and threw an uppercut with her left fist.

He almost back flipped completely, head lolling on his shattered neck, and she turned to finish the final man still trapped squarely under the weight.

But then Tubby came from nowhere, swinging his club with so much downward force that the wooden bludgeon popped the top man's head like a watermelon and caved in the bottom man's head in one "clean" stroke.

He cursed, spat, and Riven tried to warn him of the man with two daggers approaching from behind, but he was too slow. The blade plunged not-very-deep into his shoulder, and he shouted. But the moment the blade was pulled away, he whipped his left fist around and backhanded the man who'd stabbed him, and the man's head turned and turned until his face looked behind him. A solid tactic if the position hadn't twisted his spine until it was so crunched and powdery it could probably pass for chalk dust.

The man fell forward. Or was it backwards? Riven abandoned that train of thought.

This whole battle was like that. Everyone was injured in some way or another, some fatally and wildly swinging to try and take as many as they could with them to the grave. Riven was untouched as of yet, but that was just a matter of time.

She looked to the left and found everyone struggling to survive, cheeks covered in viscous blood, throats soar from screaming, arms weary from exertion. A meat grinder, with limbs flying and blood raining like clouds of gore had settled over them. Gradually backing away, back up the incline and toward the summit.

So normal. Nothing to worry about.

However, the right was sagging, and that was worrisome.

Tubby wiped his forehead, stretched his shoulder like the wound was just a muscle cramp. He was tough, Riven decided.

"Hey, you!"

He looked up, walked to her with surprising grace, and stood attentively.

Riven pointed to the right, voice raised over the clash of steel , the shouting of dying soldiers, and the blood thumping in her ears. "Reinforce the right flank!"

He glanced, nodded, and whistled. A posse slayed their way to him, and when one of his men was violently run through several times halfway through the throng, he grimaced but leaned in so the survivors could hear his deep bellow.

"What is your name, General?" he shouted.

Without hesitation. "Master Yi."

"General Yi or Master Yi? Or General Master Yi? Or Master General Yi?"

"Master Yi will do," and she allowed a hint of a smile to show she appreciated.

He saluted, and Riven found herself flushed with an odd respect, a realization that these were _her_ men now. Then Tubby- she really needed to ask his name if they lived through this- sprinted away, and the pack demolished anything in their path.

Oh, how she wished she could employ some more advanced tactics, but there were too few soldiers to reasonably perform anything that would have any effect.

There were seven, now. All in front of her, all simmering with so much hatred that Riven wondered if they'd recognized her from one of her recent, anti-Noxus campaigns. That didn't matter; they would die all the same.

They were clever, remaining a group of seven rather than splitting up. They converged in a semi-circle, and Riven considered overcharging and trying for a seven-in-one, but decided not to. Overcharging took massive energy, and though she'd rigorously trained for years to increase her stamina, she preferred to preserve everything she had until she really needed it.

She rushed the rightmost man without warning, cutting left-to-right at his neck, and he surrendered his head to Runeterra.

Before his body fell, she rammed her shoulder into it and knocked two of them off their feet. Two of the other four finally split off from the pack and circled around behind her while the other two approached directly from her left.

Her gut ached; wind sliced like a pinprick. They were stabbing for her, and so in one, smooth motion, she pirouetted, dropped to kneel, and cleaved through the thighs of the two behind her.

Shrieking miserably, they dropped to the earth, clutching stubs that pumped blood like a garden hose, and Riven rolled away between the two to her side and through the squelching mix of blood and dirt that sullied her clothes.

She'd rolled with purpose; as she raised to a crouch and sliced seemingly at random, another legless man tumbled to the mud, screaming muffled obscenities through frothing, clenched teeth.

The soldier standing by him couldn't turn around in time, and then he was run through perfectly between his shoulder blades, half of the rune protruding from his chest.

Riven but an angry boot to his back and pushed, and he sailed into one of the last two that could still breathe without sobbing.

The woman in front of her was bulky and hesitating fighting the crazed woman with blood on her clothes and cool murder in her eyes, but Riven didn't notice because she was cleaving through her sword that raised pitifully to block it. Then Riven swiped at her throat left-to-right, and she released the hilt to her weapon to staunch the flow of scarlet that gushed down her neck, down into her armor.

But she didn't fall immediately, so Riven ran her through her gut and sprinted forward until the woman tumbled into a pack that collapsed like dominoes.

The last man tried a diagonal strike originating high and to Riven's left, and she spun to intercept, snapping his blade in two in one horizontal stroke from right-to-left. Then, she struck diagonally, from the high right, and severed through both of his wrists. He cried out but he wasn't dead, an annoying repentance, and so she threw the same strike again, cutting everything above the chop that sliced from his shoulder to his opposite armpit.

The connected head and arm writhed through midair, flopping uselessly into the pile of Noxians whose wailing died as they did.

Riven must have miscounted, because an eighth was behind her. She pirouetted to her right, blade coiled to strike-.

-And she brought the blade to a standstill just before it sundered through Lee Sin's bulging neck.

"Fuck," and Riven lowered the sword.

Only to raise it again to block a high blow incoming from her left, kick out a knee with her left shin and drop him to a kneel, force their locked blades downward, and sliding forward down the length of his blade until she'd thrust through his chest. His strength vanished as he cringed, and his weapon fell to the ground.

She glanced upward, toward Sin who was analyzing her good deeds bleeding a puddle into the grass around them. He "looked" into the eyes of the man who leaned against Riven for support.

"I do not think that was gory enough."

Riven stepped backwards just far enough to lop of his head.

Sin's expression soured. "I was joking."

"And he was dying anyways."

Riven glanced to the flurry around them, to the swords cutting bloody arcs and the spears garnished with flecks of red meat clinging in stringy strands. To the faces of pain of her soldiers impaled by Noxus, to the howls of torment as Ionia struck them down. To the frenzy moving so fast, she couldn't distinguish Noxus from Ionia.

Riven focused on Sin, who'd just put a soldier down with his fist.

Riven's brow raised, breathing even. "What are you doing here?"

Sin, with his head perpetually pointing just a fraction downward, said, "We received news that Noxian troops marched upon the Placidium. We came as fast as we could."

"We?" Riven asked, and then she opened her eyes.

Like fresh water through a filter of pebbles and sand, dozens of men clad in beige robes sifted through her troops, moving light as ghosts, and threw themselves at the enemies. Their assortment of weapons was odd, mostly wooden staffs and bare fists, but they were just as effective as any other soldier. In fact, they were more so, much more so.

Sin glanced around them, or Riven assumed he did, as his head tilted to, then fro, the side, to the other side. He rolled his shoulders uncomfortable, cracked his knuckles and loosened his ankles like he did when nerves rarely bothered him.

"Are you okay?" Riven asked, noticing his pursed lips.

He shook his head. "I did not want to come. I do not wish to end any more lives than necessary, but…"

His head actually turned, as if his eyes still saw. He certainly must've heard the horde of death around him. "… It is necessary in the end."

She placed a grateful hand on his shoulder. "Thank you. We need all the help we can get."

She shoved him to the side as a Noxian advanced from behind, halted his horizontal sweep by removing his hand and then his head, and turned to face Sin again.

He nodded grimly. "I hear you are the Commander."

"Yeah, I gave them a pep talk… Shit," she said with a very serious frown, scratching at her vacant back. "Fiora's cloak. I lost it."

Sin raised the cloak in his hands to a bewildered Riven. "Let me guess. It smells like me?"

A smirk amidst the cheerlessness. "Like sweat and stern principles."

She received the cloak with a small smile, wrapping it around her shoulders. "Of course."

The expression was corrupted as a man screamed in the background, and Riven looked out over her army. Despite the help, they were losing, Ionian blue being felled by the tens, and when Riven looked out and over the Noxians, they were still backed to the bottom of the valley. They weren't going to win this.

"The odds are stacked high against us," Sin said, stepping up beside her left with arms crossed, watching the Noxian force trickle in from the south.

"Too high," Riven sighed.

The fighting had moved forward a smidge, now that Riven noticed it. She frowned; she hadn't budged had she? Her eyes widened just a little, her heart leapt in anticipation as she realized that the monks from the monastery could initiate such a change in the battlefield. She could see victory at the end of the tunnel. It was the slightest flicker, like the faintest star in a sky that was fading into dawn, but she saw it.

"Did you know you were one of the highest priorities when you first invaded the main lands?" Sin asked, head cocked toward so she could hear his accented voice.

Riven shook her head, mind running the calculations, new plans and tactics bursting in her mind like fireworks.

"They feared you would take the Placidium by the next morning. They feared so much that several assassination attempts were lined up to execute you the moment you stepped foot outside your tent."

Riven didn't reply.

"You were an excellent Commander, Riven." Sin angled his head just a little ways to the left. "And I believe you would be an excellent Commander again, given the opportunity. I would like to give you that opportunity."

Riven looked to Sin, frowning. "What?"

Sin angled his head to face hers, and that eerie intuition that Sin could see through to her soul with that gem on his bandages pervaded her again.

"Command my men," Sin said. "They are worth twenty of yours. I know you have a plan; I heard your bated breath. Tell me what to do, and in turn, I will tell them."

Riven slowly turned her head back to the slaughter. They were just a little bit farther away again.

She nodded. "Okay." She inhaled, counted the seconds, listened to the screams of her dying men, to the clanging of steel on steel, and to the sick ripping of steel on flesh.

When she opened her eyes, she was a different person. Relaxed, but determined. Cunning, scheming. A far cry from the barbarous brute she'd transformed into moments ago. No, the transforming was for the _soldiers_ , Riven realized. The Commander must be calm, always calm.

The urge to devolve into a bloodthirsty maniac rose once more as she watched one of her own be decapitated, but she quelled it. Stuffed it far away for another time, possibly soon, possibly not.

She spoke to Sin without looking in his direction. "We can't take them all at once as they are. We need to ration them, cut them into separate groups."

"We are in a valley. That is rather difficult to do."

"Exactly. They won't see it coming. They can still climb like monkeys, right?" Riven said, referring to her days at the monastery where they would climb the mountains until they were faster than the goats that bleated at their progress.

"Better than ever."

"Good." Riven squinted. "Take your men and climb the valley walls. Cut behind a section of them, big enough to be a decent crowd but small enough to be manageable, and hold the line."

Sin frowned. "But we will be surrounded on all sides."

"So will the pocket of Noxians," and Sin nodded in realization. "We will attack from the front while you attack them from the rear and hold them back."

"Ahhh. So we will… 'digest' them," Sin said thoughtfully.

"Exactly. And when one pocket has been digested, we will reinforce you, and then you will create another pocket that will be attacked from both sides. Can your men do this?"

Sin glanced briefly over his warriors. "Yes. We have trained all our lives for a situation where we are outnumbered. You can count on us."

"Thank you."

She examined the battlefield one last time, analyzing the walls and the width of the valley. This was possible. The light grew just a little brighter.

"Sin?"

"Riven?"

"That's 'Master Yi' to you."

He chuckled. "Alright then. Yes, Master Yi?"

"Surround them. We'll meet again soon."

"Very soon," and he walked casually, never betraying the fact that he must have been wracked with fear. This was his first, real battle after all. She was proud of her old sensei.

Riven cracked her knuckles. She would need to step up her own game, increase her lethality tenfold to compensate for Lee Sin's absence. But she had hope. The strongest drug in existence, though Riven liked to think love was the real contender.

The moment the monks disappeared, progress slowed, ground to a halt. Riven looked backwards, at the measly reserves that cycled as men were injured, at the few monks who'd stayed to bless the wounded with healing magic. That would boost their fighting ability by a great amount, but it would not be enough.

Riven glared at the onslaught of soldiers before her. It would have to be.

There were ten, maybe twelve for her now. All advancing upon her, because they'd realized she was the key to all of this.

She welcomed the first two with her blade, scoring a gash through a throat and across a stomach.

The next three rushed her and she parried the first's outside to her left, stealing his head as recompense for the needless aggression. The other two, startled, were killed with two easy swipes and they collapsed to the grass with fountains bursting through the seams of the dark flesh of their esophagi.

Riven glanced to her right and left, noting figures bouncing across the crests bordering the valley, and hoping that they would succeed.

The next four attempted to work together, but Riven shattered their unison, as well as their bodies, with a Ki blast that blinded the last three.

She collected a dripping head, the twitching upper half of a body, and a boated stomach, finishing the group.

Twelve more faced her, and twelve more died in a pile of limbs and blood, and yet the fury of war hadn't reached Riven yet.

And then suddenly, Riven was face-to-face with a monk that glared daggers until he recognized her. He grinned toothily, as did Riven for a split second, and she looked left and right again to confirm that, yes, they'd completely eradicated an entire segment of Noxian soldiers.

And they'd moved a great distance forward as well. The light grew brighter.

Riven let loose a rallying cry that spread like a wave along the line.

"That's just the beginning! Keep fighting!" she boomed, her voice reaching everyone with its authority and volume. "Hirana, to the hills again!"

The monks were away again, and the Ionian blue was handed the full weight of Noxus. The line bulged, but held, and Riven yelled for more troops to reinforce the right flank again.

Riven was faced with at least fourteen, maybe fifteen, but she was unsure of the exact number because she was already slashing a throat and stabbing a heart.

Another foursome attempted to assault the single warrior smeared from dirtied ashen hair to blood-and-mud-caked boots, and the foursome fell without screams because she'd separated them from their bodies, sliced open their larynxes and bathed in the carnage she created.

She'd only killed five more when she was face-to-face with the monks again, just-made-friends slapping shoulders and patting backs like they'd known each other for a lifetime. There was a victorious hurrah from her troops.

"Good, good! Again, Hirana!"

Hirana disappeared, prancing back up the wall, and Riven dove in.

She didn't count this time, as there were too many moving too fast to reliably work with a number, so she dove into the ocean of mayhem.

She swiped right and took off a man's head. She swiped left and attacked another soldier before she could see the woman's pretty head cascade from her shoulders and jiggle out of her helmet.

Riven stabbed the man in front of her in the chest, deflected the left man's spear and stabbed him too. She showed the right man what his kidneys looked like before she coated in the blood of his throat.

She maneuvered around the brutish woman's full-body shield, slit her throat from behind, and tossed her body into the soldiers, two of whose heads she squashed flat on the grass with the sole of her boot before they could scramble away to stand.

The other two she couldn't catch were knocked to the ground with sharp thwacks of a wooden staff, and she greeted the monk like she had before; with a confident grin. It was almost a joke now; every time the Ionian Blue would meet the Hirana monks, they would greet each other like they hadn't seen them in years, would ask how their wives were and how much their children had grown since they'd last converged, would laugh deliriously that they were still alive to jest at their situation.

"Again, Hirana!"

They disappeared, and Riven advanced.

They were systematic in their massacring, leaving not a single Noxian soldier alive or conscious in their wake.

If Riven were to turn around at any time, she would see the northern end of the valley stretching farther and farther, would gaze upon piles and mounds of bodies leaking blood and other fluids.

If she were to keep her gaze forward, she would see pockets of Noxus shrinking gradually, would witness the awesome fighting of the Hirana monks, would gaze impressed over Ionia battling with valor and bravery not born from sheer stupidity or ignorance of the danger present, but by the extreme circumstances they fought like hell under.

If she were to glance down that dark tunnel, she would see the light burning brighter and brighter as segments, whole battalions fell at a time to the destructive snare of death placed around their squads.

Ionian Blue was decaying as well, but as their momentum morphed from that of a gentle zephyr to an insistent wind to an unignorable current to an unstoppable gale that destroyed everything it touched, so did Riven's.

Because Riven wasn't a leader that preserved her own life from the sidelines.

Riven was an active Commander, always leading the charge into the fresh group of Noxians. She would punch through the shell and plant herself in the center and kill as many as she could, distracting them as her troops dispatched them in heaps and dissolved the crowd like a bellowing blaze chewed through wood.

She managed the supply of soldiers to the flanks, paced her troops so their rate was steady and so that there was always at least a smidgeon of revitalized soldiers in the reserves that dwindled. She would call for a pause in the movements to let the medics attend to their own, and she would send more aid down to Hirana when she could afford such an act.

However, they were doing so well that they all noticed just how well they were doing, and so they fought harder, fought prouder, slayed twice as many at half the cost in soldiers, and she constantly kindled this fire with her own furious war cries of encouragement.

She saw Sin for the first time, noticed the blood on his hands and his feet, during the intermission that was the period of time between the lines meeting and before Riven gave the order for the monks to reengage.

"Sin!"

He twisted, hands reflexively in a battle stance, but he dropped them when he whiffed her scent.

"Master Yi. We are doing well."

Riven watched over her troops, watched them transform into beasts as they bathed in blood and gore. She threw a wayward glance backward, had to double-take when she realized that they were two-thirds down the valley.

That light was brighter than ever now. Riven could feel the warmth of the flame as its edges licked her skin.

And Riven could feel the flame extinguish in an instant when she caught sight of what was coming over the mountain.

"No… No, no no no no…" Riven's face blanched. "No no no no, no, damn it, _we were so close_ …"

There was not one, but two Behemoths whose balloons tip-toed over the mountains.

The battlefield stilled in their presence, the Ionian's because this was truly the end, and the Noxians because they knew that they would die alongside the Ionian's. The entire length of warriors hushed, save the very few to the far south that were outside of the blast zone. They hadn't completely passed over the mountain, but the first quarter of their massive blimps peeked over the eastern peaks.

The screams… Riven could hear them. Her mouth dropped agape, her eyes widened, her blood freezing colder than the icy tundras of the Frel Jord as she remembered the bone-singeing burn of the chemicals that would soon carpet the valley floor.

The Behemoths had been dealing with something off to the east.

The Ionian reinforcements were coming from the east.

They'd bombed the fucking reinforcements. Riven paled. There was no one coming to save them. They would all die in this valley, just like she'd said they would.

She could hear the tortured screams, could see her old battalion's flesh melt from their white bones…

Riven's fist clenched furiously, her teeth gnashed and grumbled, her crimson eyes intensifying until her comrades couldn't notice a difference between her eyes and the blood on her clothes. She seethed.

She had known her old battalion since birth, had trained weapon in hand beside them for some of their entire lives. She had witnessed them slaughter civilians, burn harmless villages, and yet, when they'd died, the relationships she'd lost weren't anything major.

But this ragtag group of men and the occasional woman? She felt something for them. Perhaps this trust had manifested in their unquestionable devotion to her word. Perhaps this affinity for these soldiers existed because they were simply common citizens brave enough to take up arms and defend their loved ones.

Whatever it was, Riven felt something special for them. They were almost family with the way they protected her, the way they obeyed every command to the letter.

But Noxus didn't care about that. Noxus didn't care that Riven was forming bonds in the middle of battle. All Noxus saw was a cluster of Ionian pigs that needed frying.

And all Riven saw was red.

She looked with a critical, twitching eye to the distance between the mountaintop and the cabin of the first blimp.

"Yeah, I can make that jump."

Sin glanced to her. "What?"

She looked to him, and though he couldn't see her face physically, he still somehow noticed the snarl permanently set upon her lips, her flared nostrils, and her eyes that bored laser beams through the most impenetrable of souls.

"Sin, I need you to trust me."

"Of course, but we must retreat. The blimp will decimate our numbers."

"No." Riven shook her head, grit her teeth. "No. Stay and fight. I know you can't see, but I trust you understand what's happening on the battlefield?"

"Better than you."

Riven didn't doubt that. "Manage the troops. I'll only be gone for a short time. Feed them whatever bullshit you need, do you hear me? Do _not_ let them retreat. This is _not_ the end."

She pivoted, then bolted away toward the Behemoth with the wind at her back, but not before she caught Sin's "See you soon, then."

"Very soon," and she was up and away.

 **ooooo**

She couldn't let this happen. Not now, not after they'd come so far. She'd led them on under the pretense of some false victory, and now that they actually stood a chance, Noxus wanted to come steal it from under them. From under her.

That was war; Noxus had every right to send backup to win a battle, especially a battle so integral to victory.

But Riven still felt cheated. Despairing disappointment still gnawed at her, like she should have seen this coming. Honestly, she should have. She should have scoped out the situation before mindlessly charging into battle, and now her soldiers would pay the price.

However, Riven had vowed long ago to cease any needless killing. And to Riven, Ionia's death was needless. She had to stop this, had to find some way to prevent the decimation of everyone.

That was why Riven had mounted a stray horse whose rider had eaten the wooden shaft and blue feathers of an Ionian arrow. That was why she was desperately hurtling uphill, towards the masses of floating death without any regard to her own safety.

Because Riven didn't care about her own safety in this moment. There was no room to worry about herself right now; there was only the paltry remains of the Ionian defense force below.

The angle of the slope steepened, the pliable dirt and grass morphing to stone and rock. Her mount was always two steps away from losing balance and stumbling back down the mountain, but Riven pushed it to its limits. They were so close…

The blimp was a thing of wickedly gorgeous design. The balloon itself was a nondescript tan, bulging from where great ropes of steel wrapped around and held it secure, and four motors where propellers whirred endlessly were attached to all four corners. The gondola was a crude, twisted black, beams of ebony metal composing a very boxy frame that was completely enclosed. At the very forefront of the gondola was the cabin where a bubble of glass that shimmered in the sunlight was cut into segments by rods of steel.

And everywhere behind the cabin were the guns. Eight in total, barrels of various length and width protruding from the floor of the gondola on turrets of semi-spherical glass turrets, and hanging from rope and steel cables were clear sacks of toxic green ammunition.

Riven glared at the monstrous fiend, at the thing that had killed so many for so long, and its eight, venomous eyes glared right back.

The thing was just passing over the mountain, its brother drifting just beside it as they positioned themselves inch by inch.

Riven's mount was tiring now, wheezing like a horse shouldn't, but she still pushed it to its mortal limits. She fumbled inside her bag, grasped the climbing pick and the rope, and fashioned as sturdy a knot as she could.

She looked up.

She was almost there; the rounded peak of the mountain was fast approaching. She gripped the reigns harder, leaned farther forward as the incline steepened and steepened and the horse wheezed and wheezed.

And then finally, they were there. Riven was close enough to smell the chemicals boiling in the vats, hear the great choking of the engine spitting flaming fuel to keep the balloon aloft. There was an observation deck midway across the length of the gondola on both sides and at the rear, and as she closed the distance vertically, she saw the flight crew panic and scrabble for anything to deter the attacker.

The hairs on the back of her neck bristled as one of the gun barrels swiveled, and she could almost feel the bead drawn on her.

A muffled, " _Fire!_ "

The chemicals broiled and popped and sizzled, and the barrel's muzzle glowed a horrible, searing green.

There was no time left; she had to jump _now_.

So hopped onto the saddle of the horse, thanked it silently for its brave service, and with as much power as she could, she leaped and the wind carried her higher.

A teeth-shattering explosion of green mist, and toxic sludge vaporized her horse and frosted the peak, permanently scorching the ground.

Riven flew up, up, up, and just at the apex, she hurled the pick as far as she could. A gentle breeze influenced the tool where she wanted it to land, and as it clinked against the railing of the rear observation deck, she sighed, shoulders untensing as she dangled.

And then she was heaving herself upward with as much speed and grace as possible, swaying high above the battlefield. Hand over hand, she climbed and climbed, ignoring the stares and the frantic motions of the crew through the glass turrets. She'd climbed higher than any of the gun barrels could reach, and it showed in the panicked frenzying of the pilots inside.

She was mere feet below the observation deck, when she heard a hushed, "Where did she go?"

"Can you see her?"

"I don't know, just find her!"

Three voices, all male, all with Zaunite accents. So Noxus really did trust Zaun with their machines.

She inhaled, glanced down at the battlefield one last time. Her troops were still fighting just as she'd left them, although their advance was slower without her.

Riven yanked herself upward and she was airborne for a few seconds before she cleared the railing and plopped right before a group of three startled men in thick, round goggles and tubes running from their mouths to stainless canisters on their backs.

She reached out and grabbed the leftmost man and threw him behind her where he cartwheeled over the railing with a shriek.

In one motion, she unsheathed the sword on her left hip, brought it around, and slashed open the rightmost man's throat, severing the screaming air tubes in the process.

The final man hadn't even drawn his weapon, and she grabbed him by the shoulder so hard his collarbone crunched beneath her fingers and impaled him on her sword.

Directly behind the man was a door, and with him scratching at the blade through his belly, Riven pushed him at top speed until they both crashed into the door and ripped the door from its hinges.

Riven rolled to her feet and gasped; the air inside was choking, chemicals and hot steam seeping from the extensive pipework and floating visibly in the damp, dank air. The inside was poorly lit by bare, yellow lightbulbs, and a narrow catwalk spanned the distance between the door to the observation deck and the door to the cockpit. Beneath the catwalk, the eight, massive turrets were imbedded into the floor that was depressed, and smack in the middle of the catwalk was the gargantuan engine comprised of a series of pistons set in a circle. A green flame burned atop the engine, straight into the balloon that was the roof.

That was her target.

The gunners strapped into seats that swiveled with their guns began unbuckling their restraints, and Riven sprinted for the engine.

The blaring foghorn from the neighboring blimp planted chills all up her spine, slowed her pace for only a second, and she looked over through a porthole.

The blimp had cleared the mountain, and its guns were training on her troops.

There was no time to waste; Riven bolted forward, ignoring the bullets from booming, hextech knockoffs that skittered against the railing, against the catwalk.

Someone tried to step in front of her, and she rent him in half, bowling into the pieces and blinking away the drops of blood that pattered against her eyes.

The foghorn ceased suddenly. They were going to fire.

Riven didn't know what would happen when she would strike the engine block, but she didn't have time to contemplate.

She sprinted, coiled her arms, obsidian shards summoning from midair, viridescence consuming her, and she bellowed a cry louder than the foghorn, louder than the gunshots echoing around the cabin.

The block exploded into a poisonous green explosion, a fragmentation grenade that shredded every last person inside and vaporized everyone who'd survived that as the gasses inside the blimp ignited and roared. The gondola was almost torn in two, two separate boxes connected only by a few stray beams and cables.

The descent was lazy at first, not that stomach-in-the-throat plummet Riven had expected as she eased herself out of the indent in the sheet of steel.

And then a volley erupted from the other blimp, and Riven could only watch through the hole as the glowing liquid meandered through the air in a lethargic arc. The screaming was audible from here as the volley peppered the battlefield. Then the volley stopped, and the guns reloaded.

Riven's teeth ground to stubs, her fingernails bleeding her palms, her muscles straining.

She looked to the cockpit. She looked to the other blimp.

And she was away, springing and clearing the gap in the floor and headed straight for the door.

She didn't bother opening the door, so she opted to cut it down with her Windblade and burst through the gash in the metal. The pilots put up little resistance, and she allowed none to survive, ashes shooting through the door and out into the clean, Ionian air.

She was at the wheel before the last man had turned to ash, had tossed her sword aside because she didn't need to kill anything at the moment.

The blimp was losing altitude at a faster rate every second, so she twisted the wheel quickly, praying the rudders still worked well enough to cooperate with her plan.

The foghorn sounded again and didn't stop blaring.

She spun and spun and spun, lips in a snarl, brow furrowed, eyes focused. She spun and spun and spun until, finally, the second Behemoth was the only thing visible in the windshield three times taller than her.

The foghorn ended.

Riven collected her weapon, not intending to die like this, and backed up.

Then she was charging forward, straight toward the window, and though her shield would protect her from cuts and scrapes, she cover her face and jumped. The glass shattered, glittering pieces showering around her, and then she was falling.

Riven breathed deeply, though it was hard when the air was rushing past her, and set her sights where she would land.

 **ooooo**

The Behemoth fired its second volley.

However, just as the gunners pulled their triggers, the flying remains of the first blimp careened violently into the second, and the assault was instead launched harmlessly upon the mountain face where it cooled to a black crust.

Metal screeched against metal, beams crunching and wires snapping with deafening force, but what was truly deafening was the explosion.

The balloon of the second did not slowly pitter out like the balloon of the second.

The balloon of the second popped instantly, girders rupturing the thick fabric and igniting the fumes inside the second blimp. The eruption was instantaneous, a brilliant flash of green that rivaled the sun, and the shockwave soared down the mountain, ripped through the soldiers who struggled to stay on their feet, and traveled far, far past the valley.

Then, they were falling, falling smack dab toward the middle of the middle of the Noxian army.

Riven had hit the ground with a Ki blast and cleared a small space around her, so she was able to watch the balloon.

She was able to watch as the Noxian infantry attempted to run away from the falling skies. She was able to watch as the two monstrosities separated upon landing with a boom, as they each exploded a second time and wiped out hundreds within the blast radius.

Then, Riven watched as the two bulbous metal skeletons that gave the balloons their shapes began rolling, tumbling down the valley and squashing swathes through the crowds, leaving only little pockets of soldiers.

Riven watched all of this, watched the circle of soldiers that had surrounded her, turned around and watched her soldiers cheer and rally themselves. She watched how the balloons rolled over what was left of the Noxian assault, noticed how little of a fighting force was present now.

And Riven knew they'd won. All that was left was to finish it.

So she pivoted to where her soldiers desperately fought for their families lives and walked, and anyone who tried to stop her was cut down, was turned to ash. She fought tooth and nail, sliced and diced and leaped through the air and threw gale-force winds at hordes that flew over heads until she was but a few steps from the glorious wall of Ionian Blue.

Noxus was breaking. Soldiers were fleeing, Commanders barking to, "Hold the line! There's only a few more left!"

But there'd only been "A few more left" the entire time. The group was small, but now only the fiercest fighters, only the toughest soldiers, the most skilled and spirited and dangerous soldiers had survived the test and they would not die now.

And then, finally, after so much grueling fighting and death and violence:

"Oh fuck me, _Noxus, retreat_!"

They were running now, turning tail and sprinting past each other in a panicked gauntlet for survival.

Ionia hollered, whooped, and hurrahed, but they weren't done yet, so Riven raise dher swrod to the sky.

"Ionia!" they looked to her, and she pointed at the retreating army. "We're not finished yet, boys!"

They hurrahed some more, cheered in agreement.

" _Hunt the bastards down until there's nothing left to hunt!_ "

They bellowed as one, as a single entity, and then, like a wave, an indomitable hurricane, they rushed down the slope, cackling and smacking weapons on armor.

They were beasts again, and though they'd no energy to do so, they were inspired by their victory, by their commander, and they scampered down the slope until they'd caught up the running army and were swinging weapons as they sprinted. More bodies fell, were caught in the hopper of the killing machine that was the Ionian defense force, and they dodged around the obliterated blimps and the bushes and the stray arrows loosed over shoulders of desperate Noxians.

Riven slashed wildly, rinsing her comrades with dense showers of ash, feet battering the slippery grass.

The fluid Ionian Blue only ceased their bloody tirade once they'd arrived at the bottom of the valley. There were no surprise reinforcements, no more Behemoths levitating to annihilate everyone.

There was only a flat field of green, and a sun warm and bright, and a brook that trickled peacefully through a meadow. There was only the joyous raucous as Ionia hugged each other and guffawed and cackled and hooted and celebrated victory.

There was only a horizon dotted by the fleeing Noxian army, and Riven was certain that was the second most beautiful thing in the world.

 **ooooo**

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review and I'll see you in two weeks' time!**


	31. Chapter 30- The Blind That Sees

**Thanks so much for reading this far! I still can't believe people like this enough to read 30 chapters into it. Without further ado, please enjoy!**

 **ooooo**

Victory tasted sweet, but not as sweet as the greasy boar meat speared on Riven's knife.

They were clustered at the spillway of the valley, a little to the right and beneath the canopy of the pine forest to be specific. The shade was welcome as, despite the freezing cold, the sun's rays were still too intense to be wholly comfortable. That, and the trees disguised their position in case of enemy reinforcements.

They congregated close, but not too close, the next group of friends and rivals not half a stone's throw away but more than a quarter. Close enough that a surprise attack couldn't feasibly separate them, but far enough away that they all had some semblance of privacy if they wished.

The tents were pitched at Riven's orders, and though it was only midafternoon, there were still fires to stave of winter's dry cold. Fires over which prey from the hunt were spit roasted on sticks, and apparently, spices and salts were just another part of the Ionian infantry's kit.

"Good food means good morale," they'd said, and Riven couldn't argue with that. Perhaps she'd swipe a container of herbs for herself?

They were ecstatic at first, at being alive and at winning. Merry chanties and jolly spirits and gay celebration. "Pass the rum!" and "Ol' Steve, may his soul rest in peace!" and "Here, here for our boys in blue!"

And then they remembered what they'd lost, the cost, and that many of the bodies on that slope were Ionian. Somber, blank stares and painful silence and tearful recollections of the past. "Pass the rum." "Ol' Steve, may his soul rest in peace." "One more for our boys in blue."

But after the two extremes, they evened out. A solemn reverence then, aware of the casualties and the blood but also that their families were safe and that they hadn't lost yet. Respectful silence pocked by fits of laughter and grating metal from sharpening swords and murmuring of old stories and new and good food that replenished the energy consumed.

Riven leaned forward, sawed off another good chunk from the roasted boar before her, and reclined against the stump she'd rolled over for her backrest. Five tents encircled her position, two men for every marquee of camouflaged cloth except for hers, because they'd insisted she'd earned her own. But by that logic, they'd all earned their own lonely tent.

Riven digressed.

Five of the eight huddling close around the crackling campfire were the Hirana monks, all of which she'd left the monastery on good terms with. The other three were the original Ionian defense, Ponytail among them. He nursed a wound to his calf and an over-worked shoulder, but a few day's rest and he'd be in fighting shape again.

The heat was pleasant, warmth crawling up her shins and over her tanned face, over the two slashes of white beneath her eyes. The leather hood caught the heat like a bowl, cooking her ears and her sweaty brow. She'd swaddled herself in the cloak, a single arm protruding and suspending meat with a knife and she stared at the fire. It was as close to a hug as she would get, and she was grateful.

She tore another chunk from the roast and chewed, savoring the saltiness and the oily grease, shifted for toasty friction that lasted for a second, maybe two.

Sin was beside her, legs crossed, hands on his knees. The flames flickered in the jewel over his eyes, and he deadpanned into the fire, ignoring the hushed conversations of his monks with her soldiers.

Other than that, than the crackling of the campfire and the sizzling of the meat, the beating of wind against their tents that shielded them from the gusts, all was quiet. A peaceful quiet, without tension but not untroubled.

While the others spoke of previous battles and the quickest way to down a man with four arms, Riven glanced to Sin. He was stony, his bare chest unyielding to the elements, but his lack of a gaze was still too intense.

"How are you, Sin?" she asked.

He said nothing at first, gave no indication he'd heard her. But he heard everything, the scuff of a rabbits scurry through the underbrush, the crisp crinkle of the air freezing, and he most definitely heard her, so she waited silently.

The fingers on his knees scrunched the fabric of his trousers.

"Fine."

"You don't sound fine." And he didn't, because Sin never lied, and this was clearly a lie.

"I assure you, I am most comfortable in the cold. I can endure the iciest tundras for days if need be."

Riven didn't doubt that. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

Silence.

Riven tore another chunk off of the meat at the tip of her knife. She noticed the tilt of his head toward the other members of their campfire comradery; barely half a degree, but Riven worked in half-degrees.

"You're worried they might hear you?" she asked.

A half-degree nod.

Riven huffed air through her nose. "They've told you their darkest secrets. I'm sure they'd offer nothing but support."

Nothing. Not a nod. Not a spare, frozen breath.

Riven sighed, looked out over the plain through a few shallow layers of trunks. The green of the field wasn't as fantastically green as she'd remembered when she'd watched the Noxians flee. Paler. Grittier. Tougher. And the streams were mostly frozen over. In her wild euphoria, she'd hallucinated the vitality of the field, and now, she saw it for what it was.

"I did not want to kill."

Riven focused on the voice, on Sin. He appeared more open now, jaw clenched slightly, fingers burrowing into his kneecaps.

"What?"

His head shook a full degree. "I did not want to kill."

The others' attentions were on their stories, so Riven leaned forward.

"I didn't want to kill them either," Riven said. "But I knew that if they were pass, twelve years' struggles would be in vain."

"I did not want to kill," he repeated.

And then Riven remembered that Sin wasn't a hardened veteran. He could fight with the best, sure, but he learned to fight not on the putrid battlefields or in the sloshing puddles of rainwater and human remains, but in the comfortable confines of a monastery. He learned what a dying man's pained choke sounded like not by ambling amongst fresh corpses, but by reading if in books and scriptures, vicariously through the tales of other travelers.

He wasn't squeamish; gore didn't frighten or bother him. He'd walked away with blood on his fists for hours afterwards, showing not a shred of concern for his crusty, red gloves.

It was the death that disturbed Sin, and the difference between that and life. That fine line that was perhaps too easy to cross over. He was just learning this, whereas Riven had known this for over a decade.

"No one _wants_ to kill, Sin. And the precious few that do are the reason why we fight."

Another nod, and there was nothing more Riven could say. Anything else would sound hollow and fake.

She stole a swig of ice-cold water from her canteen, wiped the knife in the grass and stabbed the blade into the earth. Listened to the monks and the infantry chat about life on the front and at the monastery.

"You came all the way from the monastery?" Riven asked.

Sin nodded. "We received news that Noxus was attempting to dethrone The Enlightened One. We heard of an assault just below the Placidium-."

"Wait," Rive frowned, "What about Karma?"

Sin sensed her confusion. "Noxus was planning on dethroning her. There was an assault south of the Placidium, and we assumed-."

"Whoa whoa whoa, hold on," And Riven leaned forward. "You're saying the target was _Karma_?"

"Yes. That is what I said, correct?"

"No, you said the _Placidium_ was their target."

Sin's brow furrowed. "Is there a difference?"

"There's a huge difference."

"How so?"

Riven carded her fingers through her hair, ruminated the possibilities. The pieces added up, but that was the issue; the number was too high, much too high.

"This isn't how Noxus handles single targets. This is what it would take to burn a city." She looked to the valley. "No, this is… this looks more like a distraction than-."

Riven stopped, stared intensely at the fire.

 _Fifty men in red and black assaulting a mountaintop fortress, banging on the door while the redhead slipped over the wall and hunted for the blind monk._

A distraction while the real assault flanked and infiltrated. What was the real assault in this case?

Riven grit her teeth.

 _"_ _Perhaps the most frustrating of all is a pair of assassins that have plagued us since the beginning of the war. Besides their genders- a tall, cloaked male and a shorter woman with scarlet hair- we know next to nothing about them, save that not even locked doors and scores of guards can keep them from their targets. The front lines do not contain them; they have killed as far north as the Ecrin province. We have lost many of our brightest to this duo, and we know not a damn thing about them."_

 _"_ _I think I snagged one of them when I dealt with the rest of the Elite. Did the woman prefer throwing knives?"_

 _Both, actually._

 _"_ _Then I'm pretty sure I tagged one of them."_

But only one. The man still roamed free.

The real assault.

"Shit."

She stuffed the dagger into its sheath, stuffed the sheath into her satchel, and then she stood. Picked up her sword, rammed it into its sheath because there was no time; the real assault was upon them. Upon Karma.

Sin noticed the urgency, angled his sightless face towards her. "What is the matter?"

Riven was trotting, almost sprinting towards the nearest horse, and Sin was just behind her. "Riven?"

She threw a glance over her shoulder, but didn't slow her pace. The infantry shifted uneasily, stood because they wondered if they were being attacked.

"Do you have any way to contact Irelia?" she asked.

"No, not at this moment."

Riven inserted one foot into the stirrup, gripped the handle, and pushed herself up, swung herself over, and settled in. She looked down at Sin.

"We haven't succeeded yet; this was just a diversion. Swain has sent an assassin to finish the job while the defense is occupied. You said it yourself: the target is Karma, not the Placidium."

Sin understood, untied the reigns to another horse and mounted it. "But the Ionian Guard stalks the city. Surely they will delay the assassin's approach."

"No," Riven said. She nodded to the infantry- no, not the infantry. They were too well trained to be infantry.

Sin looked out, and when he saw what she saw, his face blanched. "This _is_ the Guard…"

Another piece to the jigsaw clicked into place.

Riven cursed. "That was why he bombed the reinforcements. So the city would be forced to send out its own defense force and thin the ranks within the city walls."

"And with the city's Guard dispersed, the assassin may slip through the patrols and strike practically undetected," Sin concluded with a grimace.

"Clever bastard," Riven mumbled. She looked to Sin. "We need to go now."

He nodded. "Then we leave at once. Hirana knows who is in charge; they will stay if I tell them so."

"Then do so at once." And Sin summoned a burly man in a monk's garb, spoke something to him.

Riven scanned the crowd that gathered, and found Tubby. "You're in charge. Ionia should be here soon; tell them we ride for the Placidium. The Enlightened One is in danger."

He was alarmed, but he saluted nonetheless. "May your journey be swift," he said.

And then they were off, galloping at full speed because the distance was short, and their horses could handle top speed for just that long. Up the valley and over the summit, across a field and then they'd arrive at the city.

 **ooooo**

The trip was longer than Riven expected, the moon just beginning its arc through the blackened sky, and soon their horses' hooves pummeled worn stone rather than dirt, echoing from the bulwarks and alerting the guardsmen at the gate.

She thought they would let her through, but her horse whinnied to a halt when they advanced, spears that glinted in the moonlight high and jabbing at its legs.

"Whoa! We're Ionia!" she said, reigning in her horse and trotting backwards.

"A Noxian! A trick!" they said, bristling, and Riven grumbled.

"She is with me." Sin's commanding voice turned all heads, and he cantered up beside Riven. "Let us pass."

They stuttered, lowering their pikes slightly but still hesitant and untrusting.

Sin lip snarled. "Let us pass! The Enlightened One's life is at risk! Or would you be the ones to explain to the Captain why you kept aid from reaching her?"

They parted at that, but they were slow to do so, and Sin waved them away enthusiastically. The gate opened, and like racers in a derby, they furiously galloped down the streets. The empty streets, the storefronts cold and abandoned like the rest of the city.

A sparse layer of snow lay across every street, but Riven allowed no mercy to her horse, and Sin followed suit; there were no obstacles save the odd fruit stand toppled during the rush to evacuate, but that meant the assassin also met little resistance, so no dawdling could be afforded.

"She will not be at the Capital!" Sin shouted over the wind as they careened around a corner.

Riven twisted her head around. "Then where will she be?"

"Follow me!" And Sin was passing her and Riven was right on him.

Karma's hideaway was a veritable castle, and if the stone wasn't the bland grey it was, Riven would've guessed it a product of Demacian engineering. There weren't spires, but there were bastions at every corner, slots carved for archers and when she focused, she could see movement. The walls were massive, the parapets shooting to the skies, but as close to cliff face as they were, she almost couldn't spy the ants scampering along the top.

The moat wasn't water, but was instead a heavy brigade of the Ionian Guard, a strip of blue dug all the way from one of its four corners to the other. Behind them was the door.

Riven wasn't comforted with how relaxed the troops were; if anything, it only worried her heartbeat because that meant the assassin was good. They had no idea he infiltrated their ranks.

Irelia did not meet them at the gate, and that further hindered their haste.

"Step aside! We _must_ see The Enlightened One!" Sin said when they were in range, but his words and person didn't have the same effect as the battalion stationed at the outskirts.

"Halt! The Captain has ordered me to let no man or woman pass!" the guard said.

Riven threw her head back in frustration, took solace in the twinkling sky, scanned the parapets while she calmed herself. These fools would lose their leader if they didn't allow them passage.

And then a head peeked down from over the crown, a head of hair as pitch-black as the night and red shoulders. Irelia.

"They bring no harm! Let them through!" she hollered from the peak, and disappeared before the man could object.

He turned, raised his hand. "Open the gates!"

They opened gradually, and the moment the crack was wide enough, they zoomed through a short tunnel that spawned a courtyard.

The courtyard was spacious, grassy humps crowned tastefully by the sandy labyrinths of Zen gardens to both sides, torchlight tossed over green and beige and grey supplied by flambeaus perched on the walls around the perimeter, and eventually the dirt path over which their horses galloped flared until a tall, wide archway cut from the face of the back wall greeted them. Inside were the stables, and past that were the doors to the foyer.

But they didn't have time to stop. Riven sprinted her horse, leapt clear, hit the ground and rolled. Sin thudded the ground just after, and they were back on their feet as their free horses hurdled through the archway.

Irelia narrowly dodged the charging steed, recognized their grave gaits and their quick strides, and asked warily, "What is happening? Has Noxus arrived?"

"No," Riven said, and both her and Sin rushed past Irelia.

"Then why do you hurry?" Irelia asked, bewildered and jogging to catch up.

The doors were before them, and they moved so quickly the two guards couldn't open the heavy oak fast enough. But Riven was stronger than the two combined, and the force she applied was so great, the doors slammed against the hallway. All three entered.

The foyer was long, very long, with slate floors and walls and ceilings all well illuminated by braziers and torches. The floor was clear save an embroidered rug that could be mistaken for a fallen tapestry its art was so precise, but then Riven looked to the end. At the very end was a stone staircase that diverged into two halfway up, the split ends morphing into a balcony that circumnavigated the entire room.

Except for the far wall because there, over the staircase, was a fine piece of artwork; a mosaic of blood reds and enchanting blues with shards so cleanly cut, the whole piece seemed to flow and move. The light from the room behind filtered through as red and blue, and the colorless walls were alive and sparkling.

There were more pressing matters than pretty glass, so she strode forward unfazed.

"I repeat: why do you hurry?" Irelia asked, and Riven remembered she was present.

She paused when she realized she had no idea the floorplan of the castle, or where Karma was stowed away. She turned suddenly, and she almost smacked face-first into Irelia.

"Where is Karma?" she asked.

"Why? Is she in danger?"

"The utmost," Sin answered for her. "Irelia, we need to get to Karma as quickly as possible. We will explain on the way."

Irelia nodded without question, and Riven could see the trust in her gaze. Sin was friend to all, and she could appreciate its benefits now. She pivoted and made ground for the staircase, her blades bobbing behind.

Her head angled slightly behind her, and she asked, "Perchance you glanced the Noxian assault on your journey here?"

Their pace was brisk as they ascended the stairs. "You can see the blood on my robes. We did more than just glance."

Puzzled and worried at the possible implication, Irelia asked, "So they are coming?"

"They're dead," Riven said bluntly.

She could hear the quirk of her brow in her voice. "All of them?"

"Most of them. The last I saw of the others, they were scurrying southbound."

"And I doubt they have stopped scurrying even now, with the defeat we handed them," Sin added.

Irelia paused, brow furrowed and turned around. "What you are saying is that you two singlehandedly repelled the assault?"

Irked, Riven said, "We never said we were alone. How many did you bring, Sin?"

"My brothers numbered about thirty. And when the smoke settled, yours were about twice ours."

Irelia didn't believe them, but she paused no longer, and they were waltzing down a hallway. "You still have not informed me of your intentions," Irelia said, and they slowed as they approached a door flanked by two suits of armor that saluted as the Captain neared.

"The assault was a distraction. Swain has sent someone here to finish the job personally."

Irelia palmed the handle, glanced to the duo with a frown. "An assassin?" And then she understood the urgency, threw open the door and they all hustled inside.

"Through that door-."

Everyone in the room froze.

Irelia faltered, eyes wide and shocked and staring straight ahead.

Sin stopped, listened to the crackle of the torch flame and smelled the copper blood.

Riven halted, pulled her weapon from her sheath.

The man in a blue cape of daggers paused amidst the bodies with his hand on "that door", covered up his surprise with a snarl.

No one moved for a moment. Every guard inside the room was dead, and after a quick sweep, Riven recognized Kaito with his throat splayed open, bleeding into the floor. It wasn't carnage; the cuts were too clean and precise and fairly goreless. And there was minimal blood, but there was still blood.

Riven looked at the man beneath his bladed hood.

The man looked at Riven with her white hair and her leather cloak.

Recognition.

And then, like they all simultaneously came to their senses, time resumed.

The man darted away, ducked through the doorway opposite them without a sound, and Riven followed.

"Sin, on me!" He nodded, and they started forward. Riven looked to Irelia. "Stay and guard Karma! He might return."

Irelia nodded. "Guard!" Armor clinked and shuffled, and Irelia trotted to the room where Karma stole sanctuary. Riven didn't see whether she was still breathing because she was already out the door.

She barged into the hallway and glanced both directions, but the cape was nowhere to be found, and when she squeezed her eyes shut and honed in, felt the air around her shift and shape, she still couldn't detect him.

"Dammit. Lost him," she said.

Sin held up a hand, and Riven quieted. His head swiveled, his senses straining, analyzing every soundwave that bounced off of the walls, every scratched footstep. Then, he honed in, pointed a finger.

"There."

They sprinted, footsteps muffled by the scarlet rug that trailed down every hallway, sight aided by fire- and candlelight. Past portraits and more paintings, murals of fairy tales and origin stories for heroes.

A four-way junction and they paused. Sin held up another hand, dipped his head to listen. But Riven glanced the quickest flash of silver vanishing around a corner to the left. She grabbed his shoulder.

"This way."

The air whooshed past them, but with another prayer, the wind was at their backs and they were rocketing down the dimly-lit corridor. They blasted around the corner, the wind's wake extinguishing candles and displacing banners and nearly ripping portraits from their hooks.

They screeched to a halt at the first intersection, a single hallway jutting away to the right. The castle was a maze, grid like in certain areas but not so much in others. Sin didn't need to raise a hand to quiet Riven, and she quelled her breath as best she could. Sin's head angled, swiveled slowly, like he was tracking something through the walls. He pointed a finger in its direction, and Riven reared to take off.

But then Sin's head focused on a completely different area while his hand remained pointed. The other raised as well, until he was gesturing toward two separate places.

"Two sources, but I cannot discern who is the assassin and who is not."

"Split up. I'll take right and you take left-."

"No."

"No? But we'll lose him if we only chase one," Riven said, heels itching to grind the carpet into the stone.

"No," Sin repeated. "We are easier to defeat when we are alone. We must stay as one for as long as we can. Pick one."

No hesitation. "The right."

They blew past a guard and entered a new wing. The style was the same grey, drab stone prettied up with colorful paintings and an embroidered rug, but there more rooms down this wing. The guest housing. Sin lead them down an arbitrary path of corridors, around corners and up a flight of stairs

They were close. They were so close Riven could finally hear him. She could hear his feet.

All four of them, and Riven cursed when they rounded the corner and found a dog skipping down the hall. But Riven stopped, frowned when she realized that her eyes had deceived her at first.

The thing was not a dog, nor was it anything Riven knew. It was white and hunched over. On three legs, the fourth with a staff, curved.

It turned its head.

Masked in black, eyes fiery blue. No, correction: eyes were blue fire.

"What is that?" Riven asked mutely, transfixed.

"What is what?" Sin asked.

Her brow furrowed further. "You mean you can't sense that?" and she pointed.

Sin shook his head. "Whatever I detected is long gone."

But it wasn't. It was staring at her.

And then, like mist, it disappeared into air.

A mumble to her left, but she didn't hear it. She was still staring at the place where the thing disappeared.

A hand grabbed her shoulder, and she was in the present again. "Riven! Were you listening?"

"N-no. No, sorry. What did you say?" she asked.

"I said…" but he trailed off, head swiveling around, gradually back the way they came and Riven didn't need him to say anything to know what had happened.

"He has circled around."

"And he's baited us far away from Karma." Riven closed her eyes and cursed. "Where is he now?"

Sin was still swiveling, still tracking the sound through the hallways. "Through the mess hall…"

"He's going back. Can you reach Karma before him?" Riven asked.

Sin pondered a moment, then nodded. "If we go now, we can. Assuming I know these halls better than he does."

"Then go. You said he was through the mess hall?" Riven asked, bobbing on the balls of her feet to depart.

"No," and Sin listened again. "He is farther, engaging a group of guards just past."

"I'll chase after him. Go defend Karma."

They separated with finality.

 **ooooo**

The castle was possibly Karma's favorite stronghold for one reason: the mural, a reason she realized was petty and vain.

But weren't they all in the end? Karma didn't know. They assumed she held the answers, but the truth was that she was enlightened by her own ignorance; she realized she knew nothing, yet she yearned to know everything.

Crafted not by the greatest artisans of Ionia, but by a young boy with aspirations higher than any she'd encountered. So innocent and fragile, like the glass, and Karma was compelled to let him work.

The boy didn't stay a boy for very long, and as he grew, so did his skills and his expectations. Thus, the mural was not simply a mural. It was a timeline from youth to adulthood, from innocence to impurity, from years and years of patient work. When times were dire, she pleased to sit in this room, the one behind the mural that supplied the light that made a fractured prism of the foyer.

Irelia disagreed.

Karma meditated upon her pillow, before the great mural. Eyes closed, absorbing the seasons of spring, summer, autumn, and winter, absorbing the years and the experiences as the little boy sprouted into a wise adult.

Irelia fidgeted, glanced from the mural to the door and back.

"Worrying will not save either of us." Karma said, voice as rich as her complexion.

"I know, but-..."

"But what?"

Karma sat just before the window, just before the entrance the assassin would use to reenter, and Irelia's sweaty palms slickened with every passing minute, with every flickering shadow behind the stained glass.

However, she refused to, "Please, for the love of the Goddesses, Karma, move away from the window!"

"If these truly are my last moments, then I wish to spend them right here."

"They do not have to be your last moments. You can help by _moving away from the window_ ," Irelia said, fiddling nervously with a metal crease at her hip.

Karma was silent. Respectful, but stubborn. Irelia huffed breath from her nose and fixed a warrior's gaze upon the dancing silhouettes of Guardsmen down in the foyer, attention honed on recognizing the signs of trouble.

But the assassin knew this.

Knew that they would expect him to come from anywhere but the front doors. Crashing through the mural, through walls, maybe even phase through the floors and the ceilings if they were spooked enough. Knew that the Captain's focus would be locked on all but the obvious.

So he waltzed through the doors, cape of blades undulating and shivering in anticipation.

Waltzed through completely undetected. No heads turned as the doors opened noiselessly.

No attentions drawn to him by his soundless footsteps, just a few so that he could confirm they were alone.

No ears detecting the singing of razor steel pulled from a sheath.

No stray glance that caught the glittering reflection on the throwing knife pinched between his fingers, as he lined up the shot.

Easy. No obstacles, no movement. One throw, and one blade would pierce her neck, would sever her spinal cord and kill her instantly.

He inhaled.

He coiled his arm.

He exhaled.

And the single blade soared to the nape of Karma's neck.

 **ooooo**

Sin understood the repercussions of his actions. He understood what would happen, understood what would likely become of him, but then if he didn't, they would fail. If he was selfish, all would be for naught, all who died would've died in vain.

And he couldn't let his brothers die in vain. Couldn't fail Riven now, not after he'd promised to help her.

Like all castles and fortresses, nooks and crannies and the odd brick jutting inconspicuously from a corridor disguised an entrance to a hidden web of tunnels and secret passages. Sin found one, searched for the brick to press to spring open the door, but there was no time. A mighty kick, and the stone crumbled like paper mache beneath his calloused heel, and then he was sprinting down a path he knew well.

He could hear the door open.

A lever, and Sin pulled it, entered the room and halted.

The assassin was in the room, a blade already in the air, but Sin didn't quite know where it was.

He hummed a single note at a practiced frequency higher than humans could hear and waited, waited, waited…

A discrepancy bounced back, small and traveling on a collision course with Karma's neck.

He understood the repercussions, what would happen and would become of him.

And he dashed forward, listened, extended his right hand.

Cold metal embedded into his palm, but the pain was negligible. He was directly in the line of fire now, halfway between the ignorant targets and the assassin. He wanted to shout to Irelia and alert her, but that would mean more random soundwaves interfering, and the daggers were so small he needed total silence to properly place them.

A grunt of surprise from the assassin.

Sin hummed.

He'd thrown two more, and Sin backhanded one away, balanced on one leg and struck the other out of the air with his foot.

The metal clinked against the stone floor.

Irelia noticed, frowned.

The dagger in Sin's palm ripped away, and all three daggers flitted back to the thrower.

Sin hummed, could hear the shift of the man's clothes as he coiled to throw all three.

They were airborne again, all three synchronously twirling.

One would try to pass around him down and to the left, one would pass over his right shoulder, and the third would strike at Sin's chest. Two for the target, one for the blind bodyguard, Sin realized.

Sin's jaw clenched; he could only block two in the time given, and he knew which ones he would block.

He kicked out his left leg, felt steel dig deep into his shin. Raised his right hand, suffered another wound as the dagger stabbed through.

Grunted when something frozen and tingly burrowed into his chest.

Irelia was turning now, overhearing the quiet commotion.

Blood spattered when the blades were once again ripped free, when they returned to sender and the assassin took one step forward because he was frustrated now. Fabric shifting as he coiled again.

Another volley. All three headed towards him, dispose of the nuisance before they know of his presence.

One flying towards his throat, one flying toward his heart, one flying toward his abdomen.

Sin protected his vitals, covered his throat and his chest with his hands, didn't react when he received a stinging blade through both palms. When the third cut into his abdomen.

Irelia's eyes were wide, suspended in the limbo between reaction and action.

The blades retreated again and Sin wobbled infinitesimally.

Another step forward, more fabric rubbing against fabric as he prepared to loose them again, and then whistling as they did.

Sin hummed, honed in-.

" _Sin!_ " Irelia said.

And now there were many soundwaves, an overwhelming amount and Sin lost the daggers in the incoherent sea of confusion. He threw his hands over his throat and his face, hoped to the Goddesses that they were all flying towards him and not ducking around.

One struck his chest, his heart.

Then another, and Sin was pushed back a step.

Then, if Sin breathe easy he would've sighed in relief as the third dagger joined the tightly-packed cluster at his chest. All had hit him, and none had hit Karma.

The blow was too damaging to stay standing; there were paralytic agents on the edge of the knives, and though he'd passed the lethal threshold for most men long ago, he was not most men.

He was, however, still a man with limits, and his were reached then.

The daggers were back in the assassin's possession; Sin hadn't felt them leave, but there was more warmth flowing down his chest than there was before.

Irelia was sprinting towards him, trying to shield him, trying to shield Karma who'd just realized what was happening, but she would be just barely too late. The man was already primed to throw.

Sin dropped to his knees, unable to stand, but as his knees knocked against the stone floor, they created clear waves of sound. Sound that bounced off of the daggers flying. But they weren't aimed at him; marked as dead, he supposed. Their path would send them whirling over his head and slicing through Karma's neck.

Irelia was almost there, commanding her blades to fly forward and shield him, but quick math determined her blades wouldn't travel fast enough to intercept. That was _his_ job. He summoned all the strength he had left so he could stand, but that wasn't enough.

So he roared. Roared so loud, the waves bounced off the blades and returned to give him their exact location clear as day, clear as if he could see. He launched upward, threw his arms out and grit his teeth.

A blade punched into his left bicep. Another into his right. The final pierced so deeply into his chest, he knew it was fatal the moment it struck him. If the wound didn't kill him, the poison would.

He collapsed, fell onto his back as stiff as a board. The blades tried to retreat, but they couldn't: Sin clenched every muscle in his arms, in his pecs and abs and truly sapped himself of strength to vice-grip them in his body.

It worked. With no weapon other than the blade wrapped around his fist, the assassin couldn't hope to fight both the Captain and The Enlightened One.

He struggled to stay awake, struggled to stay alive.

But then he caught a whiff of sweat and stern principles, and he relaxed because everything was alright now. Karma was safe.

 **ooooo**

The assassin failed. All because that damn monk had to play hero.

And to rub it in, he was forced to abandon his favorite throwing knives.

He grumbled, welcomed the cool shadows, and his body melted into an obsidian puddle of wispy smoke. Completely invisible, and he considered going for it, but the Captain's guard never wavered and he realized he'd be cut to shreds by those blades the moment he revealed his position. He snorted, pivoted.

Riven imagined there would've been surprise on his face as she wrapped her fingers around his throat. She couldn't see him, but she could smell him, hear his agitated breath, feel the cold of his proximity.

He was too engrossed in his work; he hadn't heard her footsteps when she'd entered the room.

And then she looked through him. At Lee Sin prone on the ground, so much blood on his chest she thought he was wearing a red shirt at first glance. At her dying friend.

He tried to stab her, but he was tossed through the doorway like a sack of flour, tumbling over the Guardsmen's bodies, and he regained his position, looked up.

But Riven was already airborne, her foot extended and he couldn't react in time. Her booted sole slammed into his chest, and if that wasn't enough, a blast of wind threw him off his feet and he was tumbling again.

Riven landed, pulled her blade free of its sheath, and watched as the assassin tumbled, tumbled, and rammed into the opposite wall.

He strained to stand, fingers scrabbling for a hold on the wall, and Riven waited. Waited for him to steady himself, to shake unconsciousness from his head and notice her. To notice her and glare with a raw hatred.

And she glared right back. Both were calm, collected.

But it was an angry calm. The calm that almost wasn't calm; the calm that darkened the eyes until shards of gold glared into pools of churning blood. The calm that accelerated the heart but cleared the mind. The calm that focused on a single person, on a single deed in their single lifetime and hated everything about them. Just for that one deed.

They were silent at first, standing their ground and glaring.

He wouldn't run. There was a grudge in his stance, in his snarled lip and in his masterfully tranquil muscles. She couldn't imagine what it was, but she couldn't care less.

"You," he said. "What's your name?"

She breathed through her nose, teeth grit. With every of Sin's labored pant, she spiraled further into the calm.

"Irelia," she said, because she knew the Captain stood behind her. "Close the door."

Irelia didn't question her, and the door slammed shut.

Silence. Not a peep, not a rustle from anything or anyone.

"Are you daft?" he asked, voice raising, booming through the halls. "What's your name?"

"Riven," she said.

He nodded like he knew that already.

"Talon," he said. "Talon Du Couteau."

Riven almost chuckled, almost smirked. "You're Katarina's brother?"

"You killed her." A statement, not a question."

Riven breathed deep, breathed in the calm so deeply her eyes fluttered shut. They opened. "Butchered her like a pig."

He lowered, stalked her like prey.

She lowered, gripping her sword with both hands, and stalked him as well. Circling each other. Slowly. Methodically.

"You killed her," he repeated, one foot over the other, strafing.

Riven didn't say anything, just focused. Blade out front, prepared. Feet light. A breeze tickling her skin.

He crossed the distance in an instant and thrust, but she beat the blade away to the left, then swiped left-to-right at his face. Experimental, and she gathered the data as he ducked away.

He was fast, as all great bladesmen were. A little slower than she'd expected but his strike carried more force than she'd anticipated. She was confident she could strike fast enough that he couldn't react completely, not when she dumped everything into quickness.

Talon advanced again, wrist-blade low and ready to strike.

But before he could leap within striking range, she stepped in on her left foot and kicked out the inside of his leading knee with her right shin. He stumbled backwards and she studied him as he immediately righted himself.

Excellent footing.

The blade protruding from his arm gleamed torchlight, his hazel eyes fixed on her as they circled.

Just behind him, a dead body lazed in a scarlet pool. She rushed him, feigned a horizontal right to left and instead of ducking backwards and tripping over the body, he rolled to the side, righted himself, and they were circling again.

Exceptional spatial awareness.

She lashed out quick as a gust of wind and cut his cheek. He didn't wince, just regarded her cautiously and wiped the blood from his face with his thumb.

High pain tolerance.

She halted and recapped. A good mix of speed and strength. Excellent footing that supported extreme agility. Exceptional spatial awareness and a high pain tolerance. A master of his trade.

Riven expected nothing more and nothing less.

She lowered her sword a few centimeters, gradually over time so he wouldn't grow suspicious, inviting him to attack high. He gobbled the bait, darted in, and thrust for her throat.

She advanced, and the moment his momentum crossed the line of no return, she ducked under his blade and rushed forward. He wore little armor, and even if he had, no amount of steel could protect him from her blade that ran him through his abdomen.

She retreated violently, crimson splattering her boots, and before he could recover, she stood, aimed for his heart and thrust again.

He was faster this time, but not fast enough. He leaned away but the blade still plunged through his left shoulder. Riven coiled, then struck his chest with her left elbow and he backed off of her blade, staggering but staying on two feet.

Her three strikes were up, so she assessed.

Grievously wounded; he would bleed out if they battled much longer. Aware of the wound, but his hazel eyes weren't fogged by agony. Still standing steady. Riven figured he could take maybe another round before he was sufficiently softened for a finisher.

Sin's breathing was dying in the other room, and she grimaced and clutched her weapon tighter.

With the way she wounded him, power and speed beyond a moderate amount would be cripplingly painful. He discovered this when attempted to slash at her, cringing, wheezing, and his smooth arc faltered.

She stepped forward, but her gut clenched and sure enough, it was a ruse.

Feet rooted, she leaned back and narrowly avoided the silver that swept at her throat. but now he was open, recovering from actual pain.

She slashed from bottom right to top left, with power because she recognized his disability hindered him, and the blade seared through his clothes, painted a crimson gash all up his torso.

She returned the same path, or she made it seem. He raised his wrist-blade to block, but she was instead stepping further inward to strike his head with the pommel.

Talon saw this however, and he corrected the centimeter upwards so his wrist intercepted hers. But there was enough force there to stagger him a step, and Riven created a new opportunity. She unlocked their pommels and spun, like she was pirouetting away, and he followed, blade coiled and primed to strike.

Riven wasn't actually traveling away. A half step corrected that and suddenly she turned, completed the circle, and slashed right-to-left at his unguarded stomach. Surprise in his eyes as he was duped.

More surprise when she scored another diagonal tally up his chest, a sloppy X whittled over his heart, and all there was to do was to thrust through the intersection.

But Riven had used her three, and what few rules she fought by were strict. A foot to his battered stomach pushed him away, had him scrabbling at the cloth to keep his blood inside of him.

He was suffering the effects of his mistakes through his tattered shirt and his blade clean of all blood but specks of his own, but he was tough, and so he stood defiant. With going vision and flashed canines, with his weapon high and offensive. He'd lost, but he wouldn't show it.

And when Riven advanced for the final bout, there was hatred in his posture and the way he scuttled away like the thought of touching her was revolting.

There was also a respect. A recognition that she was the better of the two.

"Good… fight…" he muttered, coughed.

There were no words for him. Irelia panicked about Sin's state in the other room, and she wanted to be by his side.

One last slash, so the legends would say he went down with a fight.

Riven threw up her sword and parried, watched the silver razor glide up the length of the Windblade's edge, watched the white sparks that spawned and cracked.

Then Talon's blade dropped off the tip of hers, momentum flinging it uselessly away from his body, and she advanced, pressed the hot edge against his throat and paused.

A few milliseconds maybe, but for warriors as quick as them, it was an eternity. Eyes locked on eyes. No fear in the other.

And then Riven pushed past him towards the door, spun, felt the sword cut through everything, flesh, throat, spine.

She rounded about, listened to the gushing blood spatter over the stone, heard the thud as a head hit the floor, and when she felt something roll into her heel, only then did she stride for the door.

 **ooooo**

Riven burst through the door. Sin was propped up on Karma's lap, his head cradled in the crook of her arm, and Irelia crouched nearby, his hand in hers.

They looked to her and she knew the news was bad. She rushed forward, and without a word Karma passed him off to her. His back on her thighs, his head in her hand, his legs extended and unmoving. The three daggers coated in drying crimson lay broken on the stone behind them, but his chest still pumped blood.

Riven looked to Irelia. "There has to be something we can do."

Karma spoke on her behalf. "The blades were laced with a venom of unknown origin. We have sent for The Starchild, but there is nothing more we can do."

Riven looked down, biting her lip.

Sin's breathing was watery, his life bubbling through his ravaged chest. Her fingers of her free hand traced down his cheek sheened by perspiration, caressed his jaw and lightly tread over the red bandages of his blindfold.

His hand reached up, tried to pick at the edge of the ribbon but his coordination failed him. Karma enveloped his hand with hers.

"Take off…" he asked.

Irelia removed the jewel from his forehead, and Karma's dexterous fingers gently unwrapped the ribbons. Layer by layer the blindfold decreased in thickness, Riven supporting his head for the other women to tend to.

And when the blindfold was in a pile beside them, Riven saw the burns and the mangled, scarred flesh for the first time. His eyes were milky, their original color indistinct, but he looked to Riven. Straight at her, right in her eyes and not a millimeter off.

"So you _were_ ugly beneath that blindfold," she teased, choked.

He laughed quietly, a horrible, wet sound and red flecked her face and her shirt but she didn't care. She let him catch his breath, or what was left of it.

"What color were they? Your eyes, I mean."

"Red." He coughed, looked at her. "Red like yours."

"That why you wear red bandages? Because it matches your eyes?"

He smiled. "That mouth…" he coughed, inhaled with difficulty, but he was so relaxed. "That mouth will get-… will get you in trouble one day."

"It already has."

His blind gaze journeyed to Irelia, who looked about to cry. A hand reached out, clawed at the air, and Irelia brought it to her cheek.

"Your father… Your father would be proud of you."

A tear down her cheek, but she wiped it before it reached Sin's thumb.

"Thank you, Lee. For your services."

He smiled knowingly, coughed more red. "If that is what you wish to-… call it."

His head angled upward, where Karma kneeled.

"Do not lose… hope."

Karma smiled sadly. "I never even considered it."

Sin coughed, wheezed and almost didn't catch his breath. He was going, and he was going fast.

He looked to Riven again, urgent, and his hand slithered from Irelia's face. He fingered the jewel resting on his abs, almost couldn't pick it up because the blood on his hands, but he managed. The jewel was raised to Riven, tremoring and shaking and she realized he meant for her to take it.

She extended her hand, and he placed it in her palm, held it there while he spoke.

"Take this to…" he winced slightly, "A musician, in Demacia… S-Sona-."

"Sona Buvelle," Karma completed. Then, to Riven, "Do you know her?"

"Yes. Not personally, but I'll find a way."

Sin breathed, his grip on the jewel tightening. "Send her my… Send her my love."

"Okay," Riven nodded, "Okay, I will. Count on it."

"I will."

And he was silent.

They all were, waiting patiently, Irelia and Riven with tears in their eyes. Karma stroking his cheek, the top of his head. Sin just breathing, fainter and fainter. Until finally, Sin inhaled all the air in Ionia, then exhaled, exhaled for much longer than he inhaled.

He stilled. His eyelids closed. His chest ceased to gurgle.

Lee Sin was dead.

Irelia wept.

Karma hummed a prayer.

Riven just stared. At Sin. At the jewel.

Another casualty of the war. How many was it, now? There was Hana, and the Elder. Icharou. Kumiko. Haruto and Izumi. Now Lee Sin. She couldn't allow the list to grow.

"Darius is dead," Riven said, staring at Sin.

Irelia sniffed, wiped her eyes, and Karma looked up at her.

"And the two assassins."

Karma nodded, but Riven didn't see it. "Where will you go now?"

She ghosted a thumb over his eyelids, examined the tattoo on his abs. Riven knew where she was going next. She'd known for a long time, since they'd bombed the valley twelve years ago.

"Noxus."

Riven was going home.

 **ooooo**

 **I'm always nervous when I have Riven kill off a champion because I know I've just pissed off a bunch of people with the implication that Riven is better than them. I should've said this earlier, but when Riven kills a champion, I'm not necessarily saying that she's a better champion than them. This story's Riven is better than them, but this is just a story. Please don't take it as anything more than this; I'm not saying Riven is Godlike, in other words.**


	32. Chapter 31- Mogron Pass

**Hello again! This chapter is really short compared to the others, but I couldn't find a way to fit this one in with the next. Enjoy!**

 **ooooo**

 **Present Day**

Riven's eyes opened, stared at the expanse of obsidian reaching for the clear sky. She breathed in, felt the sand chafing her nostrils, then breathed out. The desert smelled like dirt and dehydrated desperation, but maybe that was just her.

She unscrewed the cap to her canteen, raised the rim to her lips, and mentally sighed when the first few streams of water soaked into her parched throat. She'd fallen asleep in reminiscing, it seemed. Not too much time had passed, but passing out in the desert was asking to be picked to pieces by harpies and scavengers.

However, after a brief review of her equipment and her skin, nothing was missing, so she relaxed and gazed out at the roiling oceans of sand.

Riven was accustomed to sudden climate changes from her wandering days, but there was still some shock from the quick transition from the icy forests of Ionia to the tropical warmth aboard her vessel cutting through the Guardian Sea to the blinding heat of the Shurima Desert.

Riven's ship- _Fiora's_ ship was so obviously Demacian that they had great difficulty exfiltrating the naval blockade, and neither Riven or the Captain expected to waltz into the Noxian harbor without raising suspicion. So they'd traveled a bit lower, chancing a few encounters with pirates, and docked some distance southward with minimal issues.

The biggest problem now was the travel ahead; Riven couldn't simply trek straight northward from here because between her position and the capital of Noxus loomed the Great Barrier. To circumnavigate the mountains, she'd have to travel through the Voodoo Lands, the Shurima Desert, and slip through Mogron Pass.

She'd just made it to Shurima, the whispers of insanity still lurking in the depths of her ears from the Voodoo lands. But Riven was one of strong will, and she ignored them until they disappeared entirely.

She never liked the Voodoo lands. Dreary. Deathly quiet. Cold with the realization that the spirits there knew her soul better then she knew herself.

She shivered despite the heat, sifted her fingers through the hot sand. The shadow of the pillar had shifted slightly, and when she noticed, she realized she couldn't stay there forever. She gathered her things, looped the satchel over her shoulder again, checked her sword in her sheath, and pulled her cloak over her shoulders.

Then she was off into the heart of the desert.

Over dunes higher than the highest spires in Demacia, dancing along their sharp peaks that threatened to give way at any moment. Over sand that spilled into her boots and scathed her sweaty feet.

Avoiding and occasionally battling the gaunt, winged beasts that circled the colossal pillars, curing and wrapping what meat she could carry with her. Sipping from her canteen beneath the blue swathe and the yellow splotch, while the blue melted into gentle purple and that into pink cherry blossom then sour orange then a flash of the sun then the sand gleamed silver beneath the moon and the stars.

Resting without a fire because there was no wood, wrapping the rawhide cloak close to stave off the freezing cold of a desert's night. Waking the next morning with aches and sand everywhere, but shaking off the discomfort because thinking about it made it worse.

Chewing on strips of jerky as she walked, walked across a barren desert. Pushing against the gale, against the sandpaper and gritting her teeth, squinting her eyes. Hoping the sandstorm would pass through, sighing in relief when she crawled from the cave in the cliff face to meet a gentle breeze once more.

Footprints vanishing within minutes, no sign of her existence.

Stumbling across a tribe, signing and struggling to speak with the few phrases she knew to confirm that she was where she thought she was.

"Mogron Pass?" she asked the caravan, words pronounced as succinctly as she could manage.

The woman's wrinkled face lit up in recognition, woven shawl around her head and shoulders faded and tanned like her skin, lips pierced with dyed rings spitting out "Mogron?"

Riven nodded. "Yes. Mogron Pass," she pointed ahead of her, "Mogron?"

The woman nodded, pointed just a little to the left. "Mogron!"

"Thank you!" and Riven was trudging away.

Discovering an oasis that wasn't a mirage, refilling her water beneath the scant shade and noticing that the mountains were visible now through the haze. Reachable by another two day's travel.

More sand, more hot wind and sun, more layers of perspiration.

Just as the next night fell, she happened across another pillar. Flying beasts roosted atop this one, but that would scare off anything dangerous, and she had no wood to make a fire that would alert them to her presence. And so another night passed, shivering and swaddled as best she could.

Another morning, and she'd been forced to slay the beasts- hippogriffs. Different from griffins; smaller, more aggressive, with the posterior of a donkey rather than a lion, almost mangy in appearance. Just as dangerous though, because venom glands supplied painful lethality to their front claws.

Trekking across flat plains and hiking up countless dunes, around the world and back it seemed, but when the next night approached her with wicked talons, the mountains were just out of reach.

Another day's travel, at most a day and a half and Riven would be forced to seek shelter once more.

Journeying across the desolate wasteland, the lonely, barren world void of anything to interrupt her train of thought, and the endless freedom was getting to her. Obsessing about what she'd do when she arrived. Fretting about how Fiora was fairing. Wondering if she had the rations to survive another week.

It was maddening, because Riven was the sole adventurer in all her tales beforehand and the loneliness hadn't ever affected her like it did now.

Perhaps this was homesickness? She'd never had a home to be sick about, and while the manor was lavish and easy to sleep in, she certainly wouldn't miss the place itself.

No, Riven wasn't homesick.

Lovesick? If so, the novels and the romance stories upon the shelves of the manor didn't do it justice. Didn't convey how the ache was almost physical, how sleeping without her warm body and her soothing scent grew more and more difficult as the affliction festered.

But that made Fiora sound like a disease instead of something she'd accepted willingly. So no, the books couldn't describe that either.

Up ahead: an obelisk, font across the sandstone face unreadable from Shurima's dry, rasping tongue. Behind it, the temple ruins skulked, floated atop the sandy sea. Skeletons of a dead era, and as she walked through the ribcage that towered high, she noted the tint of the sky and realized this was the closest to shelter she would come and so she lay down her cape in a shady corner and waited for night.

The next morning was more traveling, the giants before her swelling and swelling until finally, she was there.

A staircase. A single staircase was what bridged the north to the south. A little wider than Riven imagined, able to fit a decent-sized carriage if carriages could scale stairs.

And it was a literal staircase. Not a figure of speech- an actual staircase was what bridged Northern Valoran to Southern Valoran. She'd also expected a grand entrance, an archway engraved with mysterious words, braziers of fire, but there was none of that.

Just stairs cut into the mountainside. Humble. Almost invisible from a distance, but up close it was obvious something was off because they weren't chiseled.

They were cut. The walls were straight vertical, like something huge had carved the path with a knife, and when she stepped up onto the first pristine step and pressed her hand onto the perfectly vertical wall, it was cool and smooth. But not smoothed by the elements; this was smoother.

She stepped up, then again, and the further up she went, the darker it was because it was a hallway without a roof, the walls stretching forever to the small strip of sky above and Riven wasn't claustrophobic, but panic settled in her gut.

Slight at first, but as the steps wound side to side and even up and down, as the darkness encroached, as she impossibly became lost in the labyrinth that was the single path forward, there was an unyielding, wide-eyed terror that roamed Mogron.

And then the walls disappeared and there was a bridge. Only a bridge, the other side not far but not close, continuing the hallway but between them?

Just a bridge, a smooth, clean-cut bridge of the same width as the stairs, and she could see better now because of the canyon the bridge crossed that allowed more blue sky to radiate from above.

But below, there was nothing. Blackness, infinite, like nothingness pooled far below but she couldn't see her reflection in the nothing's broiling surface when she peeked over the edge.

It was crawling out, the nothingness. Eternally seeping up the walls and threatening to consume the bridge, but it never could. Always just barely there, blackness glowing like light, but instead of illumination, it brought obscurity.

The silence was deafening. No sound, no whisper of anything sinister, no echoing caw of birds above or whooshing gusts of wind. Not even her footsteps as she cautiously stepped forward. Not even her pounding heartbeat.

Just, silence. Silence all around and blackness from below.

One foot before the other, deep breaths of cool air. Thoughts fighting the stifling paranoia.

The air froze, the silence louder than a Behemoth's foghorn, the darkness rising. Her gut ached. To the left.

So she looked left, almost jumped backwards and off the ledge.

A single being floated above the nothingness. Made of the nothingness, black shadow dripping down its gleaming pauldrons stained with blood, down its limp ethereal arms, down its blades curved and gleaming. Down its face, its mouthless, noseless, earless face. Its eyes burning like white phosphorus.

Then, slowly, it floated toward her, and her feet silently pounded for the other end.

She was sprinting down the stairs, down into the darkness, aware that this breakneck speed would break her neck if she slipped and fell but equally as wary that the cold was growing closer, that the silence was louder with each step, that the blackness was licking at the nape of her neck and leaving hairs on end.

She burst out on the other side, the walls giving way to the peachy hues of late evening and she stopped, so exhausted she was hunched over with her hands on her knees, sucking in air. Calming her nerves, turning around.

It was there.

Stationary, at the foot of the steps like a barrier prevented it from hunting her down. Watching her.

And then, as suddenly as it appeared, it retreated into the wall of black mist behind him. Then the mist dissipated, the cold vanishing, and Mogron Pass was nothing more than a staircase in a mountainside once again.

Riven stared for a while after, just long enough to confirm that the thing wasn't coming back, and turned to leave. However, the day was too far gone to travel, so she found a suitable tree, carved bark and kindling and sparked the first fire since she'd entered the Shurima.

The warmth was welcome, the crackling pop fizzling through the trunks of the forest, the firelight flickering across the leaves and the shrubs. Less a forest and more a patch of rogue trees stranded amidst the sweeping plains of Northern Valoran, but the vegetation was leafy and vibrant to compensate.

While a thick-cut slab skewered by a branch sizzled over the fire, Riven contemplated again.

About what she'd do when she arrived. She still didn't know; she assumed enlightenment would hit her somewhere along the way, but no genius idea ever occurred. Nobles with a hand in the Noxian Treasury, corrupt political seats, Jericho Swain; a lot of people needed to die, or at least leave office. Overseas relationships needed mending, as well as intercontinental to ensure no one would attack Noxus out of spite. An entire people needed re-teaching. So much work.

Too much for a single, exiled Commander. Riven bowed her head against her knees drawn close to her chest.

Then Fiora pranced into her thoughts, pirouetting and sidestepping and gliding with as much grace into her mind as she did the dueling arena. Worrying about her health, as usual, but more worried that she wasn't in possession of any means to reassure Fiora that she was alright so far.

That she was out of the warzone of Ionia and headed straight into the gaping maw of the beast, and that probably wouldn't do anything to calm her anxiety. She hoped she was okay anyways.

She hugged the cloak tighter to her body, frozen air billowing from her nose. Leaned her head back against the trunk, closed her eyes, and imagined life at the manor when all of it was over. It would certainly be less bone-chilling than it was here.

She packed her gear the next morning, smothered the fire and walked through the maze of tree trunks until she emerged.

The sun low in the sky, the air crisp and clear and still too cold to be comfortable. The grass bleak but growing less so as spring approached, patches of snow still cowering in the shade of ravines.

To the right was Noxus, black and grim, and to the left was Demacia, bright and superficially pure. Riven couldn't see them, of course, hidden behind miles and miles of plain and the dips and the hills and the slopes of the land but they were there. They were there, and Riven realized without a horse, the trek would take weeks and weeks. Two weeks to get through the Shurima and the pass, but that was a short distance compared to the miles she would walk to Noxus.

She took a step to the right. Then hesitated.

An equal distance in either direction. A choice.

She could go right, battle till her end and be slaughtered when the realization that she couldn't do this alone hit her at the same time the blade would her heart. Go right and battle fruitlessly because, again, she was only one woman and whatever change she made would be corrected the moment she fled or died.

Or she could go left, spend the rest of her days with Fiora in her arms, in her bed. Go left and enjoy what she had and accept what she lost because in the end, she was one woman. Her sole successes only mattered to her, as did her failures, so what was the reason for killing herself over some silly ideal? That the good had to prevail and the evil vanquished?

So she took a step to the left, but it was bittersweet. Sweet because she was closer to Fiora.

Bitter because this wasn't about good or evil anymore. This wasn't about principle, and it hadn't been from the start.

This was about Hana and the Elder. This was about Master Yi and even Grandmaster Yi, fallen into madness. This was about Kumiko and Izumi and Haruto. This was about Lee Sin. This was about everyone who'd died because of Noxus' thirst for conquest.

When she took that step left, they all cried out at once because if she took another, then another, then another all the way to Demacia, they would never forgive her. When she stepped left, she was abandoning their sacrifice and their struggle, disregarding everyone else who was still alive. Who were still alive but wouldn't be for long if she didn't run this home stretch.

Irelia and Karma. Tubby and Ponytail.

If she stepped left, they died just like the rest. _Ionia_ died just like the rest.

So she stopped, turned the other way. Stepped right, then right again. Then again and again and with her sights to the right, she was traveling toward Noxus once again.

 **ooooo**

 **Yeah, so super short. Thank you for reading, please leave a comment, and I'll see you all next chapter!**


	33. Author's Note

So, many of you may have noticed that I haven't added to this story for about a year, and that's because I didn't like the direction it was taking. This was my first story I ever wrote/published, and like everyone's first time, it's appropriately awful.

However, I liked the concept too much to simply toss it out the window. I was going to delete it, but sifting through the comments, I was surprised to find that some of you guys seemed to like it, so I'll keep this outdated version of it up on the site until the newer version is complete. I learned a lot from this story, so hopefully, the next time will be better.

Thank you to everyone who left kind comments and praise, but especially thank you to those who were brutally honest. I'll never truly improve if I don't know what I'm doing wrong, so I appreciate your words of encouragment.

As to everyone who's actually read this far, I hope you enjoy the rewritten version (if you actually want to read this story again).


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